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“JAIKES, I CAN BEAR THIS NO LONGER!” 

F ro nt is piece. Page 1 8 



THE SILVER KING 


BY 

ALFRED WILSON BARRETT 

»» 


FOUNDED ON THE FAMOUS PLAY BY 

HENRY ARTHUR JONES and HENRY HERMAN 



G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



COFTRIGHT, 1914, BT 
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 


The Silter King] 


J 


Printed by 
. J. Little & Ives Co. 
ilew York 


■0 




JUL 17 1914 


©CI.A374846 


CONTENTS 

PART I 

PAGE 

CHAPTER I 

CHAPTER II i8 

CHAPTER III 30 

CHAPTER IV 40 

CHAPTER V . . . 46 

CHAPTER VI 56 

CHAPTER VII 63 

CHAPTER VIII 77 

CHAPTER IX 84 

CHAPTER X 93 

CHAPTER XI 100 

CHAPTER XII 108 

CHAPTER XIII 1 17 

PART II 

CHAPTER XIV 125 

CHAPTER XV 142 

CHAPTER XVI .148 

CHAPTER XVII 158 

CHAPTER XVIII . 168 

CHAPTER XIX 175 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER XX 
CHAPTER XXI 
CHAPTER XXH 
CHAPTER XXIH 
CHAPTER XXIV 
CHAPTER XXV 
CHAPTER XXVI 
CHAPTER XXVH 
CHAPTER XXVIH 
CHAPTER XXIX 
CHAPTER XXX 
CHAPTER XXXI 


PAGE 

. 185 

. 198 
. 209 
. 220 
. 228 
. 243 
. 252 
. 262 
. 271 
. 279 
. 286 
• 293 


THE SILVER KING 


PART I 
CHAPTER I 

A nd they kept like that, neck and neck, the 
three of them, till just as they were turn- 
ing the corner, drawing in home; and then 
Marcher put on a bit of a spurt, and Blue Riband 
shot ahead like a flash of greased lightning, and 
won by a short head. Never saw such a pretty 
finish in my life.” 

A tall, thin man, dressed in one of the loudest 
of check suits, only partly concealed by a long 
fawn overcoat, was talking excitedly to a crowd 
of others more or less like himself — bookmakers, 
backers, racecourse touts, etc. — in the bar of the 
old-fashioned ‘‘Wheatsheaf” in Clerkenwell. 

It was the evening of Derby Day — a real Derby 
Day, a day full of sunshine and dust and noisy, 
good-humoured crowds. The men gathered in 
the bar were in various stages of excitement and 
fatigue; some of them rejoicing not too wisely over 
their winnings, others attempting to find consola- 
9 


10 


THE SILVER KING 


tion for their losses in the liquor supplied by the 
landlord of the ^‘Wheatsheaf.” This latter he, him- 
self, in his endeavour to cope with the thirst of his 
customers, was serving in his shirt-sleeves behind 
the bar, helping to push forward the drinks as fast 
as they were ordered. 

The tall, thin man, ‘^Bilcher” to his friends, 
had evidently had a good day, for all the signs of 
success were visible in his features and manner. 
As he paused for a moment and lifted his glass to 
his lips, a man walked up to him quietly, and, 
touching him on the sleeve of his fawn overcoat, 
drew him aside. 

‘‘Bilcher, I want you for a minute.” 

“Well, Mr. Ware, what is it?” 

The new-comer was a man of about thirty, 
smart, well-dressed, and good-looking; but in his 
whole appearance there was something indefinable 
that aroused distrust. An expression of discon- 
tent in the lines of the mouth, an insolence about 
the eyes, and a certain air of ill-ease in his bearing 
marked Geoffrey Ware, That he had not alto- 
gether failed in life was clear, but that he had not 
attained complete success, that he had not attained 
by the best of means such success as was actually 
his, might have been guessed by a discriminating 
student of men. 

Though he spoke to the bookmaker in a con- 
fidential manner. Ware did not seem as though 


THE SILVER KING 


It 


he were a friend of the man; yet there was 
obviously some sort of understanding between 
the two. 

‘‘Well, what about Denver?’’ he asked, looking 
anxiously at the bookmaker. 

The latter laughed, shrugging his shoulders. 
“Doubled up this time,” he replied; “doubled 
up, and no mistake. Went a smasher on Patacake, 
and lost everything — owes me a hundred and fifty 
pounds, besides.” 

Ware turned away to hide the expression that 
had come into his eyes. 

“Ah,” he murmured, half to himself, “it has 
come at last, then!” 

He turned to the bookmaker again. “You’re 
sure you’ve cleared him out?” he said. 

Bilcher nodded. “Oh, yes!” he replied; “me 
and Braggins between us have done the trick right 
enough. Much obliged to you for introducing 
him to us.” 

Ware glanced away for a moment. “How did 
he take it?” he asked at last 

“Oh, he tried to laugh and joke it off. He’s as 
drunk as a fiddler. He was pretty mellow when 
we started this morning, and we’ve kept him well 
doctored up all day.” 

Ware smiled. “That’s right,” he said viciously. 
“Keep him at it Where is he?” 


THE SILVER KING 


IS 

“We left him drinking at the bar at Waterloo 
Station, but he has promised to turn up here.” 

“Ah! I’ll run in and have a look at him by 
and by.” And with a curt nod to the bookmaker 
Ware turned away. 

“Ruined!” he muttered. “Ruined! Now, 
Nelly Hathaway, I think I’ll show you that you 
made a slight mistake when you threw me over 
and married Wilfred Denver.” 

The bookmaker, with a queer glance in the direc- 
tion of his acquaintance’s retreating figure, turned 
back to the bar, where his companions and the 
landlord were engaged in noisy talk. 

“So poor young Denver came a cropper to-day, 
did he?” asked the landlord as the little crowd 
parted for Bilcher to reach his half -finished drink. 

“Yes.” 

The publican’s cheerful red face clouded. 
“Poor fellow !” he said ; “I’m sorry for him. He’s 
a downright, good-hearted, jolly young fellow, Mr. 
Denver is.” 

There was a murmur of acquiescence, and one 
of the other bookmakers nodded. “So he is, 
Tubbs,” he said, “when he’s sober.” 

Bilcher grinned. “And that ain’t been the last 
six months,” he retorted. “Tubbs takes care of 
that.” 

Tubbs seemed inclined to resent this reflection 
on his treatment of a good customer, but before 


THE SILVER KING 


13 


he had time to retort the door of the bar opened, 
and a stout, elderly man entered, glancing anx- 
iously round the faces of the crowd. 

There was something curiously apprehensive 
about the old man’s manner, nor did he seem to 
be in his proper environment in the motley crowd 
gathered together in the bar. True, he had a 
comfortable figure, a hearty, round face, and a 
nose which looked as if it were not unacquainted 
with port. Yet he was not the kind of person 
whom one would associate with bar-loafing. From 
his appearance he would have been more at home 
presiding over a dinner-party in Mayfair, or laying 
down the law in dignified fashion below-stairs 
in Belgravian mansions, or standing in majestic 
dignity in the centre of ancestral halls. You could 
not realise him hob-nobbing in Clerkenwell with 
racing-men and touts. Still, looked at more 
closely, his black suit showed signs of decay, and 
his whole air gave the faint impression of a pros- 
perity that was waning. 

His entrance did not disturb the drinkers from 
their task, and he was able to take a second look 
round before he was observed. Stroking his head, 
he stood irresolutely, half-way between the door 
and the bar, when Tubbs, the landlord, pausing 
for an instant from his arduous duties, descried 
him through the tobacco smoke that hung in a 
cloud over the counter. 


14 


THE SILVER KING 


‘Took!” he whispered to Bilchcr, jerking his 
head in the direction of the old man, “there’s Mr. 
Denver’s servant. He’s come to look after his 
master.” 

The old man, noticing the gesture, made his 
way to the bar. 

“Good day, Mr. Tubbs,” he said. 

“Good day, Mr. Jaikes,” returned the landlord. 
“I see who you are looking for, but you must give 
him a little extry time to-night. There’s a good 
many public-houses between Epsom and here, you 
know.” 

Jaikes sighed. “Ah, but he’ll be home early 
to-night,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. 
“He promised the missus he would, and I want 
to catch him and pop him off to bed quiet afore 
she sets eyes on him, d’ye see?” 

The landlord winked sympathetically. “Ah! I 
shouldn’t wonder if he’s a bit fresh, eh?” he said. 

The old man sighed again, and then brightened 
up. “Well, anybody might happen to get a bit 
fresh on Derby Day, you know, Mr. Tubbs.” 

“He’s been going it a pretty pace lately, ain’t 
he?” asked Tubbs. 

Jaikes bit his lip. “Well, he’s a bit wild,” he 
confessed, “but there ain’t no harm in him. Bless 
you, it’s the blood. He’s got too much human 
nature in him, that’s where it is. His father was 
just like him when he was a young man. Larking, 


THE SILVER KING 


15 


hunting, drinking, fighting, steeplechasing — any 
mortal spree you like under the sun; out all night 
and as fresh as a daisy in the morning. And his 
grandfather, old Squire Denver, was just such 
another. There was a man, if you like.’’ The 
old butler spoke with relish, and for a moment 
seemed to forget his present troubles, and to be 
back again in his pantry discussing a bottle of 
port, and lost in recollections of generations of 
hard-living Denvers. “Why, old Squire Denver 
for the last ten years of his life never went to bed 
sober one night Ah, yes! he did one night, 
when the groom locked him in the stable by mis- 
take, and then he was ill for a month afterwards!” 

A laugh from the crowd showed their approval 
of the story. 

“Took his lotion pretty regular, then!” said 
one of the crowd 

“I believe you. Well, well,” continued the old 
fellow, “when I was a dozen years younger I 
could take my whack, and a tidy whack it was, 
too. But, bless you, I wasn’t in it with old Squire 
Denver, and Master Will’s a chip of the old block. 
He’ll make a man yet.” 

Bilcher, the tall bookmaker, sneered. “He’ll 
make a madman if he doesn’t leave off drink,” he 
said. 

“You let him be!” cried Jaikes, looking round 


16 


THE SILVER KING 


indignantly. ‘‘He's all right — Master Will's all 
right " 

But he stopped hastily and put his fingers to 
his lips, for as he had spoken the man they were 
talking of had entered the bar. 


CHAPTER II 


‘‘Yes, Pm all right, I’m all right!” shouted 
Denver, as he reeled into the “Wheatsheaf.” 
I’m as drunk as a fool and I’ve lost every cursed 
ha’penny I ever had in the world. Oh yes, I’m all 
right.” 

Glancing unsteadily round the bar, he staggered 
towards the first empty chair within reach, close to 
a marble-topped table in the centre of the room. 
His feet could scarcely carry him so far, and as 
soon as his fingers touched the chair he pulled it 
towards him, sank down heavily into it, and 
dropped his chin upon his breast. 

Huddled up there in his seat, Denver presented a 
truly pitiable object. He had reached that stage of 
intoxication when his limbs refused to obey the 
commands of his brain, while the brain remained 
clear enough to recognise the degradation of the 
body. To hide his despair from himself and from 
others, he forced the note of defiance as he spoke, 
but in the pauses the miserable, almost terror- 
haunted, expression of his eyes belied his assump- 
tion of courage. 

Yet his drunken condition and the disorder of his 

17 


18 


THE SILVER KING 


clothes, dust-stained and soiled on arm and knee, as 
though he had fallen more than once, did not con- 
ceal the fact that Wilfred Denver was a tall, well- 
built young man, perhaps thirty years of age, 
with muscles that spoke of a long acquaintance with 
healthy outdoor sports. Nor could the poison with 
which he was sodden hide altogether the hand- 
someness of his features. The eyes, bloodshot and 
half-glazed as they now were, had not lost their 
pleasant grey, and in spite of the droop of the lips 
at the comers of the mouth, set off by the small 
moustache and short pointed beard, was still attrac- 
tive. If many months of dissipation had left their 
mark on Wilfred Denver's face, they had not suc- 
ceeded yet in marring it beyond retrieval. He 
looked like a man who had adopted the foolish 
expedient of ‘'drowning his sorrows" rather than 
one who drank merely because he could not 
help drinking. One might guess that his easy- 
going nature had let his affairs reach the stage 
when the liabilities exceeded the assets, and that a 
few bold coups intended to restore his fortunes had 
failed, only to plunge him deeper into debt. The 
weaknesses of his character had manifested them- 
selves at once, and perhaps it would take some great 
crisis to bring out the latent strength. 

The drinkers in the bar all looked at him as he 
staggered across to the table. Some few sneered, 
but the majority shook their heads not unkindly; 


THE SILVER KING 


19 


for they knew that Denver had been a man who 
never did another a bad turn, and — what appealed 
to them still more — "‘spent his money like a lord,*’ 
as they would have put it. 

The stout landlord was among those who viewed 
the broken man with a soft eye. Putting the case 
on the lowest grounds, Mr. Denver had been a 
rattling good customer of his of late, and expended 
a lot of money for the good of his house. He 
leant forward across the bar. 

“What, backed the wrong horse, Mr. Denver?” 
he inquired sympathetically. 

Denver raised his head and looked round with a 
dazed expression. 

“No, Tubbs, no,” he answered at last, with a 
laugh of desperate gaiety. “I backed the right 
horse, but the wrong horse went and won.” 

“Oh dear, oh dear, that’s a pity,” said one of 
the bookmakers, who, not having won any money 
off Denver that day, could afford to look at the 
matter from an unprofessional point of view. 

“Not a bit of it,” retorted Denver. “I’ve lost, 
you’ve won. If there were no fools like me in the 
world, what would become of the poor rogues?” 

“Well, you seem pretty merry over it, at all 
events,” said Bilcher rather sourly. 

The tall man’s words irritated Denver. His 
voice took a less pleasant tone as he turned his 
head in his direction and said: 


20 


THE SILVER KING 


“Yes, Bilcher, Tve lost my money to-day, and 
to-morrow I shall lose your acquaintance. Fm 
quite satisfied with the bargain.” 

Bilcher seemed inclined to make an angry reply 
as Denver continued to eye him contemptuously. 
But Jaikes, who had remained silent sin - e his 
master’s entrance, interposed his stout frame 
between the speakers, and going up to Denver 
endeavoured to distract his attention from the 
bookmaker. 

“What? Bad luck again. Master Will?” he 
said, wagging his head in mournful sympathy. 

“The devil’s own luck, Jaikes,” Denver an- 
swered. “I put eveiything on that infernal Pata- 
cake, and now Fm ruined.” 

The old man put up his hands as if to ward off 
a blow. 

“Oh, Master Will, don’t say that!” 

“Well, say stumped, cleared out, knocked into 
a cocked hat, if you like it better, Jaikes.” 

Denver pushed his chair back and stood up 
against the table, looking over the old man’s head 
towards the bar. 

“Bilcher,” he called. 

The bookmaker turned round and came towards 
the table. 

“Bilcher,” continued Denver, “I owe you a 
hundred and fifty pounds.” 

“Yes, I know that,” said the other; “and 


THE SILVER KING 


what I should like to know is how I’m to be 
paid.” 

‘That’s what I should like to know, too, 
Bilcher.” 

“Why didn’t you take my advice?” asked the 
bookmaker surlily. “I told you that blackguard 
Braggins was doing you.” 

“Ha, ha !” laughed Denver, the quarrelsome 
gleam accentuated in his eyes. “Do you know, 
Braggins told me the same about you. Come, 
Bilcher, don’t be greedy. You’ve had a good 
picking off me ; let the other blackguards have their 
turn.” 

“Oh, I wash my ’ands of you,” snarled Bilcher, 
turning on his heel. 

Denver slipped back into his chair with another 
laugh. “Very well,” he said. “They won’t be 
any the worse for a good wash.” 

The bookmaker stopped for a moment, his face 
reddening furiously, and looked as though he 
contemplated going back to the table, but Tubbs 
beckoned to him from the bar, while Jaikes again 
threw himself into the breach, and touched his 
master on the arm with a queer mixture of respect 
and reproach. 

“Come, come. Master Will,” he expostulated, 
“you’d better be getting home.” 

A spasm contracted Denver’s features, but he 
shook his head angrily. 


THE SILVER KING 


^2 


‘‘Home!” he cried. “What should I go home 
for? To show my poor wife what a drunken brute 
she's got for a husband? To show my children 
what a pitiable object they’ve got for a father? 
No, I won’t go home. I’ve got no home. I’ve 
drunk it all up.” 

“Oh, Master Will, for mercy’s sake don’t talk 
like that,” begged the old servant. 

There were tears in his voice. Denver was not 
untouched, but the drink still held the upper hand 
and fed his anger. 

“Get home yourself!” he shouted roughly. 

Jaikes looked at him sadly, with the tears now 
visible in his eyes and a tremble in his body. 

“Yes, I’ll go home,” he murmured. “I’ll go 
home.” 

Denver watched him slowly turn away. The 
frown on his face remained, but there came a 
different expression across his face. “Jaikes,” he 
said at last, in an insistent tone, “don’t let her 
come here and find me like this. Tell her I haven’t 
come back — tell her I’m not to be found — tell her 
any lie that comes handiest, but don’t let her see 
me. And now, be off!” 

As the old butler dejectedly made his way out of 
the bar, fumbling with the door handle, a man 
passed him and entered the “Wheatsheaf,” casting 
a quick, sharp glance around him. An unobtru- 
sive man, a quiet, plain, ordinary man, of no 


THE SILVER KING 


23 


particular age, and with no particular characteris- 
tics save a pair of broad shoulders, a hard-featured 
face, and that keen, rapid, comprehensive glance — 
a glance that seemed at once to take in everyone in 
his immediate neighbourhood, to size them up, and 
ticket them off. 

He was strolling casually in the direction of the 
counter when his eyes fell upon Denver, and he 
stopped suddenly, with a little exclamation. For 
the latter, seated still at the table, had stealthily 
drawn a revolver from his pocket, and was looking 
at it with haggard eyes. 

“There’s always one way out of it,” he was 
murmuring. “If it wasn’t such a coward’s 
trick. . . 

With a movement apparently careless, but won- 
derfully swift, the new-comer approached the table. 

“If you don’t know what to do with that,” he 
said quietly, over the young man’s shoulder, “I’ll 
take care of it for you.” 

Denver started violently, but, quickly pulling 
himself together, he put the revolver back into hii 
pocket. 

“Thank you, I do know what to do with it,” he 
said. “Much obliged for your advice,” he added, 
and, rising to his feet, he staggered to the bar. 

“I may want this revolver to-night,” he mut- 
tered. “In the meantime I’ll have another drink.” 

The quiet man watched him for a moment, then. 


24 


THE SILVER KING 


shrugging his shoulders as though such things 
were no affair of his, walked across and seated 
himself at another table, picked up a newspaper, 
and seemed to busy himself with its contents. 

Denver ordered his drink and carried it back 
unsteadily to his old seat. Bilcher and the others 
looked at him in silence, having evidently decided 
that it was safest to leave him alone. Denver asked 
for nothing better. He began moodily to sip his 
brandy-and-soda. 

At this point the door opened again, and a young 
man walked into the bar — or it would be more 
correct to say burst into it ; for there was no undue 
modesty about the manner of his entrance. Some 
twenty years of age, with a face originally pale but 
now mottled with red after his many potations, his 
clothes fashioned after the raciest cut which the 
Tottenham Court Road could produce, his bowler 
hat crammed down over his left eye, and a half- 
smoked cigar, with the band still on it, stuck in 
the corner of his weak mouth, the latest arrival in 
the “Wheatsheaf" had no intention of letting the 
world ignore him. As he swaggered up to the bar 
he caught the landlord’s eye, and waved a hand at 
him patronisingly. 

‘'What cher, Tubbs, how do?” he cried. 

“How do, ’Arry,” said Tubbs. “What’s for 
you ?” 

“ ’Enery Corkett, Esquire, from you, Tubbs, if 


THE SILVER KING 


25 


you please!’' replied the youth. ‘1 say, what do 
you think of that, Tubbs, eh?” 

‘‘That” was a roll of bank-notes, which the 
speaker pulled out and flourished proudly across 
the bar. 

“Backed Blue Ribbon for a win and a place,” 
he continued, “and landed five hundred pounds. 
Look at them!” 

He flourished his handful of notes again, and 
glanced round the room to see if by chance there 
was anyone who had not yielded him his due meed 
of admiration. His loud tones attracted the atten- 
tion of Denver, who had just finished his glass 
and was now leaning stupidly over the table. 
He sat up with a jerk, wheeled round in his 
seat, and, looking the young Cockney up and 
down, turned his back again with an ugly 
laugh. 

“Biggest fools, best luck.” 

“What’s that? What d’you say?” asked Cor- 
kett angrily, taking a step towards him. 

“I said I wished I’d no brains,” sneered the 
other, “because then I could make money at horse- 
racing.” 

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Denver, is it?” said Corkett, 
and the anger died out of his face. “I’ve seen 
you, Mr. Denver, at my guv’nor’s place in Hatton 
Garden. You know me. My name’s Corkett — 
I’m Mr. Ware’s clerk.” 


^6 THE SILVER KING 


Denver turned round again in his seat and stared 
at the youth for a second or two. 

‘‘No, I beg your pardon — ^but I don’t know 
you.” 

The insult in his voice was clear enough, but 
Corkett was determined not to see it. He looked 
round the bar. 

“What’s everyone going to have?” he asked. 
“What’s yours?” 

“A glass of bitter,” said the man addressed. 

“Bitter be blowed ! Have some champagne. 
Here, Tubbs, it’s my shout. Champagne all 
round, and your best.” 

“Come, gentlemen, all drink my health,” he 
said as Tubbs opened the first bottle. “Mr. 
Denver !” 

“Certainly,” said Denver, reaching forward and 
taking the glass that was handed to him. “I’ll 
give you a toast. Here’s to the health of the 
beggars that win ! Put them on horseback and let 
them ride to the devil!” 

A snigger ran round the bar, in which everyone 
joined except Corkett, who rose angrily from the 
stool on which he had seated himself, and advanced 
again towards Denver. One of the company laid a 
hand on his arm, while Tubbs leant agitatedly 
across the counter and whispered: 

“Don’t take any notice of him, ’Enery. He’s 
been hard hit at the Derby to-day.” 


THE SILVER KING 


27 


^*Oh, all right/^ said Corkett, resuming his seat. 
‘'Well, look here, gentlemen, Fm flush. Hang the 
expense, and drink up.” 

No one seemed disinclined to accept the invita- 
tion except the unobtrusive man, who had appar- 
ently wearied of the paper and had just come up to 
the bar. He looked at Corkett for a moment, and 
then, muttering, “You young ass, put those notes 
in your pocket and go home to bed,” moved 
away. 

This was too much for Mr. Corkett. He jumped 
off his stool again, his face more mottled than ever, 
pulled his notes out of his pocket, and followed the 
other, waving the bundle in his face and shouting : 

“Who the devil are youf Can you show as 
much money as that? No, you can’t, so you shut 
up and take a back seat. I’ve won my money fair 
and honest, and I shall spend it how I like. Hang 
it all, I shall light my pipe with it if I please. 
Here, Tubbs, give me a cigar.” 

He caught one up out of the box which Tubbs 
passed across the counter to him, put it in his 
mouth, struck a match, and set it to one of the 
notes, which he pulled from his bundle. Then, 
turning round to the quiet man, he waved the 
blazing note before his nose before lighting his 
cigar from it. 

“Do you see that? That’s a five-pound note. 


28 


THE SILVER KING 


There, that’ll show you what I’m made of. I’m a 
gentleman, I am. Money ain’t no object to me.” 

The quiet man seemed so little impressed that 
Corkett in disgust turned his attention elsewhere. 

‘‘Money ain’t no object to me, I say, Mr. Den- 
ver,” he repeated, looking aggressively across at 
Wilfred Denver’s table. 

Denver could not help but hear him, plunged 
though he still was in his gloomy reflections. An 
indignant scowl crossed his features. Why was 
this young fool talking to him about money, flour- 
ishing piles of notes before his eyes, when to-mor- 
row his own wife and children would be starving 
for want of a shilling? It was too much! He 
sprang to his feet. 

“Look here,” he said ; “you’ve more money 
than you know what to do with. I’ll take you on 
at any game you like, for any stake.” 

“Oh, I don’t want your money,” said Corkett 
sulkily, Denver’s insults still rankling in his 
mind. 

“No, you may not, but I want yours. If you’ve 
got the pluck of a rabbit, piit your money up, win 
or lose.” 

“Oh, very well, then,” growled Corkett. 
“What shall it be?” 

“Cards, skittles, billiards, any mortal thing you 
like. I don’t care.” 


THE SILVER KING 


29 


‘‘All right. Billiards. Fm ready for you.” 

“Come along, then,” said Denver, staggering 
towards the billiard-room door. “Damn it all, my 
luck must change.” He flung the door of the room 
open. “By God, it shall change, it shall change!” 


CHAPTER III 


A SILENCE fell upon the room as the crowd 
trooped out of the bar to watch the match between 
Denver and Corkett. The racing-men eagerly 
jumped at anything to keep going the excitement of 
the day, and surged into the billiard-room, talking 
loudly and wagering freely on the result of the 
game. Tubbs himself vanished from behind the 
counter and went off to attend to duties elsewhere. 
Only one person remained — the quiet man who had 
vainly attempted to advise the Cockney clerk to 
put away his bundle of notes. He propped himself 
up in a corner, pulled an evening paper towards 
him, and glanced listlessly through it. 

A slight noise caused him to look up. The door 
from the private bar opened gently, and an old 
man’s head peered into the room. It was a curious 
head, rather large in size, with a broad, pale face, 
edged with a long, white beard, and side whiskers, 
but clean-shaven on the upper lip. The eyes were 
very light, a milky blue, and combined with the 
white hair to give their owner rather a mild and 
harmless expression. To match this, the old man 
wore — as far as could be seen through the half- 
30 


THE SILVER KING 


31 


opened door — clothes of a somewhat clerical cut; 
and on his head he carried a soft black felt hat with 
a wide rim. Seeing him anywhere but in a public- 
house, you might have taken him for the minister 
of some obscure and simple sect. 

The quiet man by the bar held the paper up 
before his own face as the head looked in, and kept 
it there until the head was withdrawn. Save for 
an occasional shout from the billiard-room, silence 
reigned again over the room. 

A few minutes later the same pantomime was re- 
peated, but this time the head was not withdrawn; 
for a light, quick step was heard at the door lead- 
ing from the street, the door itself opened, and a 
tall figure made its way in. 

A great contrast to all who had visited the bar 
that evening, the new-comer was faultlessly and at 
the same time inconspicuously attired, from the 
crown of his opera-hat to the polished toes of his 
patent leather shoes, from the dress-tie showing 
white against the velvet collar of his perfectly 
fitting overcoat, to the tips of his delicate white 
gloves. He was a man of about forty years of age, 
tall, as we have said, and well-made. His features 
were regular and rather heavily moulded. His hair 
was black, turning slightly grey at the temples, his 
skin was pale, his jaw strong, his mouth sneering 
and somewhat savage in expression. Not by any 
means an unhandsome man, he had nevertheless 


S2 


THE SILVER KING 


too much of the fierce animal in his appearance to 
make him quite attractive. In him there was the 
same ugly curl at the corners of the mouth, the 
same powerful jaws and greenish eyes with a yel- 
low fire in their depths, the same sense of sinewy 
strength which causes one to rejoice in the presence 
of the iron bars of the cage as one watches through 
them one of the greater cats. Looking at the latest 
arrival in the “Wheatsheaf’^ bar, you could not 
have helped feeling the necessity of being on your 
guard, you knew not why. Even a single glass, 
worn in one eye, and harmonising well with the 
rest of his exquisite attire, could not persuade you 
that this man was a mere dandy when you caught 
the restless glance beneath it. 

The new arrival did not appear to notice the old 
man in the doorway. He walked straight up to the 
end of the bar where the quiet man leant with the 
newspaper held up in front of him, and kicked his 
foot, as if by accident. The paper dropped and the 
two pairs of eyes met. A flicker passed through 
both, betokening acquaintance, but certainly not 
intimacy. The monocle dropped from the taller 
man's eye, but it was with an even voice and a 
slight drawl that he asked : 

“Anything fresh in the paper?" 

“I suppose you know Blue Ribbon pulled it off 
to-day ?" 

“Ah! I don’t bet." 


THE SILVER KING 


33 


‘‘And that theyVe caught the man who commit- 
ted the jewel robbery at Lady Fairford's? See, 
this is the paragraph. It might interest you. Curi- 
ous thing : it seems that the thief was quite a swell, 
as well dressed as you yourself.*' 

“Was he, by Jove!" said the new-comer, re- 
placing his eyeglass and looking calmly at the 
other. “The cheek of these fellows !" 

The quiet man returned the gaze with interest, 
not without a certain admiration in his eyes, as 
he agreed: “You’re right. There is no mistake 
that they are cheeky." 

The wearer of the eyeglass moved slowly away 
to the other end of the bar, and picked up a match, 
with which he lighted a cigarette before beginning 
to read the paper. He was quite near the old man 
at the door of the other bar, but gave no sign that 
he had even seen him. Yet the old man was clearly 
delighted with something. As fresh shouts floated 
out from the billiard-room he edged himself nearer 
to the bar and murmured : “My dear boy. I’m so 
glad you’ve come." 

The “dear boy" shifted not an inch, nor did he 
raise his eyes. Even his cigarette scarcely moved 
between his lips, but a few crisp words reached the 
ears for which they were intended: 

“If you accost me again in a public place. I’ll 
break your neck, you old weasel." 

The old man looked pained. 


THE SILVER KING 


“My dear hoy” he expostulated in a hoarse 
whisper, “business is business, and it’s a case of 
a big fortune for us all — a whole sackful of dia- 
monds in Hatton Garden. No risk, no danger at 
all! As safe and easy as saying your prayers.” 

“How do we get in?” 

“Why, we cut through the wall of the next 
house. Now, to get into the next house, dear 
boy ” 

“Will you hold your infernal cackle!” hissed the 
man with the eyeglass, still apparently absorbed 
in his paper. “Do you see that man watching us 
from the other end of the bar? That’s Sam Bax- 
ter, the detective.” 

“Baxter the detective?” 

“Yes, you damned fool; don’t look at him. He’s 
recognised me and no doubt will follow me up. 
I shall have to throw him off the scent directly.” 

The sounds from the billiard-room had been 
increasing in volume as he spoke, and now the door 
was flung open with a crash, and Corkett burst into 
the bar again, his weak face more flushed than ever, 
and his voice more aggressively strident. A tail of 
gesticulating and shouting men followed him, some 
with glasses in their hands, others hastening 
eagerly to get a new drink. Tubbs came bustling 
out once more behind the counter, sniffing fresh 
champagne and anxious not to lose a moment’s cus- 
tom. At sight of him, Corkett gave a shout: 


THE SILVER KING 


35 


‘‘Ah, ha, Tubbs, pulled it off again, my boy. 
Landed ’im proper, I did.” 

Tubbs smiled benignantly on him. 

“What, have you won, ’Arry?” 

“Ra-ther. Why, he wasn’t in it! And now, 
gentlemen,” he went on, looking up and down the 
bar, “let’s be merry. Drink up, all of you. Come 
on. I’ve made my money like a gentleman, and 
I’ll spend it like a gentleman. So what’ll you all 
have ?” 

The man in the eyeglass and his aged acquaint- 
ance had found themselves seriously incommoded 
for space when the noisy crowd surged along the 
counter. The former frowned and was moving 
away when the other whispered : 

“See that young sprig just come in? I’ve found 
out that he sleeps in the house we want to get into. 
He’s clerk to the fellow that has rooms there, and 
has a bedroom above. Now, if we could get hold 
of him ” 

“Will you shut up! And now listen to me. 
Just you relieve the fool of his bank-notes while I 
draw off Baxter’s attention. You’ll be able to get* 
hold of the clerk when he’s cleared out.” 

“And you’ll be there as soon as it’s dark, dear 
boy, eh? The address is 114 Hatton Garden.” 

“Where’s the Ancient Briton?” 

The old man grinned noiselessly. “He’ll be on 
the spot,” he answered. 


36 


THE SILVER KING 


“Right, Coombe. And now I’ll teach Sam 
Baxter to try and put his finger in our pie. You 
watch how he’ll follow me. I’ll lead him a pretty 
dance.” 

He screwed his glass more firmly in his eye, 
looked round the room for his gloves, found them 
on the table where he had left them, and, opening 
the door of the bar, called: 

“Hi, boy! Get me a hansom!” 

The door closed behind him, but had scarcely 
closed when the man described as Baxter left his 
place by the counter and made his way out into the 
street by the private bar. The room was left to 
the throng of racing-men, and that eminent patron 
of sport, Harry Corkett. The only discordant 
element in the crowd was the old man who had 
been called Coombe by the wearer of the eyeglass. 
He had with some difficulty pushed his way past 
Corkett and his friends, and given an order for 
“a drop of gin” — to the apparent amusement of 
the others, and of none more than of Corkett. 

The clerk gave a derisive laugh. 

“That’s all right, isn’t it? But look here, 
gentlemen. I’ll be blowed if I don’t stand cham- 
pagne all round again. I’ve got money enough to 
pay for ” 

He stopped short, thrusting his hands hastily 
into one pocket after another of his horsy outfit. 


THE SILVER KING 


37 


His jaw dropped and a look of terror came over 
his eyes. 

“I say, look here,” he stammered. “Some- 
body's been and stole my money.” 

A sensation ran through the crowd. Tubbs 
behind the bar paused in his toil, and an expres- 
sion of real concern made itself manifest in his 
fat face. 

“What! Nonsense, 'Enery,” he gasped. 
“There ain't no thieves in my house. Feel again, 
my boy.” 

He clambered under the flap of the counter and 
came out into the room to help in the search. But 
all Corkett's diving into his pockets was in vain. 
There was not a note to be found. The clerk was 
beside himself. 

“It's gone!” he shrieked. “It's gone! My 
money's gone! I'm robbed, ruined. Here, give 
me my money, do you 'ear? Give me my money, 
or I'll ” 

He glanced wildly round him, and his eye light- 
ing on Bilcher, who stood nearest to him with a 
bit of a sneer on his ugly features, he leapt at 
his throat. The tall bookmaker staggered slightly, 
but quickly recovered himself. Seizing the frantic 
clerk by the collar, he shook him off roughly, and 
gave him a push into the arms of Tubbs. 

“You keep your hands off of me, you young 


38 


THE SILVER KING 


fool, or ril smash your face in. I haven’t got 
your money.” 

Corkett looked at him helplessly. 

“Somebody’s got it. Somebody must have it,” 
he wailed. 

Tubbs endeavoured to soothe him, but the crowd 
in general evinced little kind feeling for the man 
whose champagne they had been drinking so 
recently. Only the old gentleman in the semi- 
clerical attire put in a word of sympathy. 

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Coombe, “don’t 
play larks with the poor young fellow. If any of 
you’ve got his money, give it back to him.” 

The bookmaker looked at the odd figure 
derisively, while Corkett continued to moan, “I’m 
ruined. I’m ruined,” and the tears ran down his 
cheeks. 

The kind-hearted old man seemed struck with 
an idea. 

“Why, of course,” he cried, “that’s the man that 
must have taken it!” 

“Which ? Which ?” shouted Corkett, shaking 
off Tubbs’s supporting arm. 

“Why, did you see a man with a billycock hat 
and check trousers — a quiet-looking sort of chap 
as sat reading a paper by himself for a long time? 
I saw him sneaking round your elbow just after 
you came out of the billiard-room. Depend upon 
it, he’s the man that’s got it.” 


THE SILVER KING 


39 


Corkett looked as if he had taken a new lease of 
life. ^‘Which way did he go?'’ he cried excitedly. 

“Out through that door and into the street. I 
saw him turn to the left. There's plenty of time 
yet. I’ll help you to catch him. I shall know the 
rascal right enough when I see him again. Come 
along with me." 

He opened the door as he spoke and waited for 
Corkett to come with him. The others shrugged 
their shoulders and looked as if nothing were 
further from their thoughts than joining in such a 
wild-goose chase. Corkett’s “Come along, gentle- 
men, and help me find him” fell on deaf ears. 
The young clerk glanced round at them again, 
and the memory of his loss overwhelmed him once 
more. 

“If I don't find him I’m ruined. I’m ruined!" 
he shrieked again. 

His old friend patted him reassuringly on the 
arm, and Corkett passed out into the street with 
him. 


CHAPTER IV 


‘‘What, another man ruined? Cheer up! We'll 
go to the dogs together." 

The jeering words caused the occupants of the 
bar to turn in the direction of the speaker. It was 
Wilfred Denver, who was leaning against the door 
of the billiard-room where he had once more failed 
to change his luck, and was surveying the scene 
with a savage expression on his face. He now 
made his way up to the crowd and pushed through 
them to the counter, where Tubbs was back once 
more at his work. 

“Here, Tubbs, give me another brandy," he 
cried. 

“Now, Mr. Denver, you've had enough,” ob- 
jected the landlord. 

“I'm the best judge of that," retorted Denver, 
frowning. “It's a free country, and anybody can 
drink himself to death that likes. I will have it, 
I will!" 

He seized the glass which the landlord rather 
unwillingly handed to him, and returning to his 
old table, dropped into a chair. He gulped down 
a mouthful of the fiery liquor and passed a burning 
hand across his brow. 


40 


THE SILVER KING 


41 


The street door was pushed open, and a man 
stepped in. He halted as he saw Denver, and a 
smile of triumph lit up his features, bringing- to 
the surface the evil which was somehow always 
latent beneath them to the observing eye. Geoffrey 
Ware looked at this moment as though he were 
rejoicing over the success of some much-cherished 
scheme, as though a long-standing malice had 
been gratified, as though a hated rival at last lay 
prostrate at his feet. But the malignity of his 
gaze was quickly stifled. The smile changed its 
character, became merely cordial, and Ware walked 
up to Denver’s chair and slapped him on the back 
with a cheery: 

‘‘Well, Will, old man, how are you?” 

Denver sat up and faced the inquirer. His eye- 
brows contracted. 

“I’m three parts drunk and the rest mad,” he 
answered sullenly, “so keep out of my way, 
Geoffrey Ware.” 

Ware gave a laugh of mock expostulation. 
“Nonsense, Will,” he said. “I never saw you 
looking so bright and sober. I’m very glad for — ' 
for Nelly’s sake.” 

Denver sprang to his feet, his face ablaze and 
his fists clenched. 

“For whose sake?” he shouted. 

“Mrs. Denver’s — ^your wife’s. Excuse the slip 
of the tongue,” replied Ware, stepping back a 


42 


THE SILVER KING 


pace. ‘‘You know, Denver, she was engaged to 
me once.’^ 

The two men^s glances crossed. 

“She knew better than to marry you, however, 
didn't she?" said Denver, with a laugh which was 
unpleasant to hear. 

Ware flushed. 

“It seems she did — for she married you," he 
sneered. 

“Yes, and she'll stick to me through thick and 
thin," cried Denver warmly. “Why, you sneak- 
ing cur," he continued, his voice growing in 
intensity, “do you think my wife can't see through 
you? Do you think I don't know why you are 
always creeping and skulking about my house 
under pretence of being my friend? Now, listen 
to me" — he drew nearer to Ware, looking 
him full in the face — “I'm going to the dogs. 
I'm drinking myself to death as fast as I can. I 
shall be dead in no time. But she won't marry 
you, Geoffrey Ware. She'd sooner marry a sweep 
— you know, a sweep of the other sort, I 
mean." 

Denver lifted his glass to his lips, set it down 
again untouched, and sank back in his chair, turn- 
ing his back on the other man. 

“Now you've got it straight," he muttered. “Go 
and chew the cud of that, and then go and buy 
a rope and hang yourself." 


THE SILVER KING 


43 


Although raging with fury, Ware succeeded in 
restraining himself still. 

“Come, Will,’’ he said, “you know I don’t bear 
you any grudge for taking my sweetheart away 
from me. I’m only glad to see what a nice, kind, 
sober sort of husband she’s got.” 

Denver^ s shoulders shook with the effort which 
he too was making to restrain himself. 

“I’ve warned you once,” he growled rather 
than said, keeping his head bent down. “Take 
a fool’s advice, and keep out of my way. The 
devil’s in me to-night, and he’ll break out 
directly.” 

But Ware would not be warned. Fierce jealousy 
burned in his heart and overmastered every other 
sensation. How he hated this man, who was 
getting the better of him now, as he had got the 
better of him before! Was his long-dreamt-of 
triumph after all to bring him no pleasure? He 
ground his teeth at the thought. 

Yet he forced his features to a smile again, a 
smile even more evil than had played across them 
a few minutes back. 

“Ah, well,” he cried, “take care of yourself, 
my dear fellow, for my sake. And give my kindest 
regards to — Nelly.” 

At last the cord had been stretched too far. 
With a fierce oath Denver sprang up once more 
from his chair, and in a second the remaining con- 


44 


THE SILVER KING 


tents of his glass were dashed in his enemy^s face. 

There would assuredly have been a struggle, 
a fight, with who knows what consequences, had 
it not been that the men round the bar, attracted 
by the angry voices, had been watching the pair 
for the last few minutes, and drawn near to them. 
Bilcher, well accustomed to race-course rows, 
quickly thrust his long body in front of Denver, 
while two of his companions hustled Ware away 
from the table. Tubbs came diving under the 
counter for the second time that day, and lifted 
his voice in the interests of peace. 

Denver strove blindly for a moment to push 
Bilcher out of his path. But already the fury of 
his passion was evaporating, and the drink resum- 
ing its sway. His arms dropped, and he allowed 
himself to be led to a chair. 

‘Take that man away,’" he murmured thickly; 
“take him away before I kill him.’’ 

Ware, dishevelled and pale, his coat wet with 
the drink which trickled down from his face, still 
kept his sneer, but suffered himself to be led from 
the saloon. Only on the threshold he turned 
round and delivered his parting shot. 

“Ta-ta, Will,” he shouted; “don’t forget my 
message to your wife.” 

Tubbs interposed hastily as if to drown the 
sound of Ware’s voice. 


THE SILVER KING 


45 


‘"Now, Mr. Denver, you'd better be going home, 
you know.” 

‘‘No, no; let me stay here, Tubbs,” Denver 
pleaded, pulling his chair up to the table and bow- 
ing himself over his outspread arms. “Oh, my 
head!” he groaned. “My head!” 

“Come away, Mr. Bilcher,” said the landlord, 
watching him, relieved; “we’ll leave him to him- 
self. Perhaps if we go into the skittle-alley and 
have a game, he’ll drop off to sleep, and then we 
can carry him home.” 

Denver was not too far gone to hear the last 
words. He lifted his head a little from the table, 
and broke into a foolish laugh. 

“Yes, carry me home,” he said, “and sing 
‘See the Conquering Hero Comes’ ! — and then bury 
me and play the Dead March in ‘Saul.’ ” 

His head dropped on his arms again. The 
landlord led the way into the skittle-alley, followed 
by the crowd, and silence reigned over the saloon, 
broken only by an occasional uneasy moan from 
the sleeping man. 


CHAPTER V 


A FEW minutes later Wilfred Denver raised his 
head and gazed vacantly in front of him. The 
bar of the ‘‘Wheatsheaf” swam before his blood- 
shot eyes, and his temples throbbed unceasingly, 
allowing him but little time for concentrated 
thought. Yet, as the desperate buoyancy which 
he had displayed before the landlord and the 
drinkers in the bar disappeared, when the stimulus 
of his last brandy-and-soda had ceased to act, con- 
fused visions of his wrecked home began to form 
themselves in his mind anew. How many times 
had they not presented themselves to him since 
that cursed moment when he watched Patacake 
crack up in the very straight, and the scarlet jacket 
of Blue Ribbon^s jockey flash to the front? Could 
he ever screw up his courage to revisit in the flesh 
— as he had so often since that moment visited in 
the spirit — the home from which his wife and chil- 
dren must soon be driven? 

He gave a groan and let his head fall forward 
on the table, still wet with the splash from the 
glass his trembling fingers had held so unsteadily. 

For a moment or two — though for all he knew 
46 


THE SILVER KING 


47 


it might have been hours — he lay, face downward 
on the table, without moving. Suddenly the noise 
of the door opening aroused him from his stupor, 
a breath of cooler air blew across the heated sa- 
loon, and a light step was heard immediately behind 
him. 

Ke sat up and turned his head. A young 
woman had entered the room and was looking at 
him. 

Tall, fair, and pale, she stood there for a 
moment in silence, while Denver’s eyes, bloodshot 
and half-stupid, wandered over her sweet, pathetic 
face, her graceful, still girlish figure, her simple 
dress. 

Then something in her attitude, in the quiver 
of her lips, in her intertwined fingers in their 
mended gloves, struck him with consciousness, 
recalled to him who this was and where they 
were. 

“Nelly! You here! My God! What are you 
doing in this place?” he gasped, and, staggering to 
his feet, he leant heavily on the table, gazing at 
her almost in fear. 

The young woman looked at him. 

“Isn’t a wife’s place by her husband’s side?” she 
answered gently. 

“Not when he’s such a husband as I am. You 
go home, my darling,” he stammered, trying hard 
to pull himself together and to gain control of 


48 


THE SILVER KING 


his voice, ‘'you go home, and I’ll come by 
and by.” 

An infinite pity looked out on him from her eyes, 
and she laid her hand gently on his arm. 

“No, my poor Will, come now !” she pleaded. 

How hard her sweet, wilful blindness to his 
degradation made things for him ! Had she shown 
disgust at his condition, or greeted him with 
angry words, he could have borne it. But now 
remorse raged within him — not the mere remorse 
of the drunkard as the mastery of the drink grows 
less strong, but the terrible self-reproach of the 
better man beneath the surface. There was no 
mistaking the genuineness of the emotion which 
made him tremble. 

“I’ve ruined you, Nell,” he said; “I’ve ruined 
you. I’ve lost every sixpence I’ve got in the world. 
To-morrow you and the children will be starving. 
Ah, Nell, my bonny, bonny girl, look at me! 
Look at what I am! What made you marry me, 
a drunken brute like me?” 

“Because I loved you. Will, and I love you still. 
Never mind the past, dear. Come home and make 
a fresh start to-morrow.” 

She drew him towards her, and tried to guide 
him to the door of the saloon, but he caught wildly 
at the marble top of the table, pulling himself away 
from her and averting his face to avoid those eyes 
which caused him such anguish. 


THE SILVER KING 


49 


can’t!’’ he cried brokenly. ‘‘I must go on. 
I can’t stop. I’m going down, down, as fast as I 
can go. ... I don’t know where !” 

She tottered forward, then with a strong effort 
threw her arms round his shoulders and dragged 
his face towards her own. ^‘Ah, don’t say so, 
Will,” she said, with an inflection of despair for the 
first time creeping into her voice. ‘‘You must stop 
yourself, dear, for my sake — for the sake of your 
Nell.” 

“The sweetest and truest wife man ever had, 
and married to such a wretch as I am.” 

For the moment Denver appeared to have shaken 
off his madness. He gazed at his wife with tear- 
dimmed eyes, and putting his arm round her neck, 
gently caressed her hair and cheek. But the 
mood did not last long. His arm dropped to' 
his side again, and he sank back in his chair hope- 
lessly. 

“Don’t you come here 1” he commanded. “Don’t 
come, I tell you. You only make me feel what a 
brute I’ve been to you.” 

Nell still remained standing. Resolute as she 
was, she felt helpless in face of her husband’s 
abandonment. Could nothing rouse him from his 
awful state of weakness? Was there nothing she 
could do to stave off ruin from his home and hers, 
from their children? She laid a hand once more 
on his shoulder. 


50 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Will/’ she said, “before I came here I had just 
put our little Cissy and Ned to bed, and listened 
as they knelt at my knees to say their prayers. 
‘God bless dear father,’ they said.” 

The door of the salJ'on clicked as she spoke, and 
a man entered and walked up to the bar. But 
neither of them heard him, for Denver had started 
up from the table with dilated features. 

“Ah,” he cried hoarsely, “don’t teach them 
that! Don’t teach them to pray for me; teach 
them to curse and hate me.” 

He glanced around him wildly, and his eyes fell 
on the figure at the bar, and on Tubbs himself 
behind it. The landlord had just taken his 
customer’s order, and was pausing to look 
curiously in the direction of the noise. Denver 
dropped his voice as he turned again towards his 
wife. 

“Go away, Nell,” he said. “Don’t you see the 
people all staring at us? Go home, there’s a good 
girl; I’ll come back when I’m sober. Go home, 
my girl, go home.” 

It was no use. He could not meet the gaze of 
those sorrowful eyes any longer. They seemed 
burning into his soul. There was only one thing 
to do — to get drunker still — drunk till he forgot 
that he had ruined her, forgot what a wretch he 
was, forgot everything. . . . 

He swung away from her and lurched towards 


THE SILVER KING 


51 


the bar. Nelly made an effort to restrain him, and 
then sank into his empty chair, her body shaken 
with sobs. 

‘‘Tubbs, give me a brandy, quick! Don’t keep 
me waiting,” cried Denver loudly. 

The man who was drinking there put down his 
glass as Denver came up, picked up his walking- 
stick and sauntered towards the door before Denver 
could see his face distinctly. Pausing at the door, 
he looked across to the table where Nelly sat, and 
stepped up to her side. She did not seem to hear 
him. He leant over her bowed head, and said in 
a quiet tone, barely more than a whisper: 

“Mrs. Denver ! Have you not yet suffered 
enough ?” 

With a violent start Nelly raised her head. 
“Geoffrey Ware!” she gasped. “Ah!” What 
humiliation that he, of all men, should see her in 
this public-house, begging in vain to her husband 
that he should come home! What thing more bit- 
ter was there in store for her now? But at least 
he should not know that she was wounded to the 
heart. She brushed her hand across her eyes, rose 
from her chair, and looked at her tormentor with 
her head proudly upheld. 

Ware continued pitilessly : 

“Has Denver dragged you deep enough into 
the mire yet? Or will you go still deeper with 
him, to rags, to the gutter, to starvation? Nelly 


52 


THE SILVER KING 


— do you remember that you once promised to be 
my wife?” 

The touch of tenderness in his last words roused 
her more than his previous sneers. 

“Yes, I remember,” she cried indignantly, 
“and I repented even before I promised. I never 
loved you, and you knew it. You worried me 
into giving my consent to an engagement, and 
as soon as I found out what a mistake I had 
made I told you. Then I married a better 
man.” 

“Ah!” replied Ware, with a wicked smile and 
a backward jerk of his head. “There stands the 
better man, does he not? Look at him now at 
the bar there. A pattern husband, isn’t, he? A 
pattern father — prosperous, happy, respectable, 
sober, eh?” 

“Oh, this is manly of you! What harm have 
I ever done to you?” 

The words seemed forced from her by her agony. 
But Ware looked at her hard-eyed, and answered* 
dryly : 

“What harm? You married him. On the day 
of your wedding I swore that I would ruin him. 
I have kept my word. Good evening, Mrs. 
Denver.” 

And, lifting his hat with an exaggerated polite- 
ness, he turned to the door. 

“Stop, you cur!” 


THE SILVER KING 


5S 

It was Wilfred Denver’s voice, ringing sharply 
out in the sudden hush. When he had gone to 
the bar a few minutes before, his muddled senses 
had prevented him from realising who it was that 
had been drinking there before him. The first 
mouthful of the brandy Tubbs had handed to him 
seemed to clear his head. Who was it who had 
left the bar and walked over to the table where 
Nelly sat? There was something familiar about 
his gait. Great God! It was Geoffrey Ware — 
Geoffrey Ware, who had come back and was talk~ 
ing to his wife, sneering at her, torturing her. 
Ah, well, he could soon put a stop to that. His 
hand went to the revolver in his pocket. There 
was a better use for that than putting it to his own 
head. And, drawing it out, he staggered towards 
Ware. 

‘‘Stop, you cur!” he cried again, “I’ve got a 
question for you to answer.” 

Ware halted suddenly with his hand upon the 
handle of the door. For a moment he was startled, 
but he was brave enough, and he quickly recovered 
himself. Looking Denver up and down con- 
temptuously, he half turned upon his heel, with a 
“My dear fellow, do you know you’re drunk?” 
Then, smiling carelessly, he flung open the door 
and passed through it without another glance at his 
adversary. 

Denver’s face turned purple, and his tremblings 


54 


THE SILVER KING 


fingers closed round the trigger of the revolver. 
With a wild oath, he dashed at the door closing 
now behind Ware’s retreating figure. 

“You dog!” he cried. 

But Nelly was quicker than he. With a scream 
she flung herself in his path, while men came 
running from behind the counter and from other 
rooms of the inn. 

“Stop, stop!” she cried, and to her help came 
rushing Jaikes, his usually red face blanched to an 
unnatural pallor. 

“Master Will! Master Will!” he gasped. “What 
are you going to do?” 

“Going to do?” shouted Denver. “AVhy, I’m 
going to kill that man. Let me get at him — let 
me get at him!” And, thrusting Nelly aside, he 
dashed his fist at the door. 

“No, no, Will!” cried Nelly wildly. “He’s not 
worth it. Will, dear, don’t!” and frantically she 
caught at the revolver. 

The drinkers from the other bars huddled 
together in a body away from the maddened man, 
fearing the revolver, stupid from the sudden inter- 
ruption of their laughter and chat. Only Jaikes 
dared to approach the struggling pair and grasp 
his master. 

For a moment Denver fought, writhing furiously 
in his captors’ grasp, and shouting, “Let me go!” 
Then, with a great effort, he flung both of them 


THE SILVER KING 


55 


off. '‘I’ll kill him like a dog!” he cried, and, 
revolver in hand, dashed again to the door. Blind, 
mad, he flung himself furiously at the panels. 
There was a crash, a splintering of wood, and he 
was through and out in the street. 

'T’ll kill him — kill him — like a dog!” he cried, 
and he was gone. 

“Ah, will no one stop him !” cried Nelly, and she 
fell across the threshold. 

Jaikes raised her breathless form; men, recover- 
ing their senses, sprang to the doorway ; wild cries 
of “Stop him!” rang through the startled street — 
but Wilfred Denver had disappeared. 


CHAPTER VI 


When Corkett and his venerable-looking ac- 
quaintance emerged from the bar of the ‘‘Wheat- 
sheaf/’ the clerk staggered slightly and passed his 
hand jerkily across his face. The contrast between 
the hot, reeking room and the outer air made his 
head swim terribly, and the blaze of lights had 
made his eyes little fit for piercing the gathering 
darkness. The old man took his arm kindly and 
guided his steps for a few minutes. 

“We’ll soon find him,” he said. “Now, tell 
me. You say you don’t know the number of the 
notes ?” 

“No; I only took ’em off the bookmaker this 
afternoon, and I never looked at the numbers.” 

Corkett could not see the ghost of a smile that 
crossed Mr. Coombe’s face. Indeed, even had it 
been light enough to notice such things, the clerk 
was far too drunk to pay attention. He steadied 
himself on the friendly arm, and continued : 

“I’ve got something to tell you. You won’t 
split on me, will you? It wasn’t my money. I’d 
borrowed it to put on Blue Ribbon.” 

“Borrowed the money,” said the old man in- 
quiringly. 


56 


THE SILVER KING 


57 


'‘Yes; borrowed eighty pounds off my guv’nor, 
Mr. Ware.’’ 

“Oh — oh, I see, and without his knowing 
of it? Now that’s very awkward, very awk- 
ward.” 

A new expression — was it a shocked one or could 
it be one of amusement? — crossed the broad pale 
face, but again Corkett was in no state to take 
notice. 

“I got the straight tip,” he explained stum- 
blingly. “I knew Blue Ribbon was a moral cert, 
and I meant to put the money back. Honour 
bright, I did,” he protested. 

“Of course you did,” was the soothing reply. 
“You was actuated by very honourable intentions, 
I’m sure.” 

Corkett stopped and clasped his hands round a 
railing. He looked at Mr. Coombe with terror in 
his eyes. 

“And now,” he choked, “I shall be found out 
to-morrow, and have to go to quod.” 

Mr. Coombe shook his head. 

“Ah, that’s a pity — and the worst of it is, the 
judges are so unfeeling to parties as borrows their 
guv’nors’ money without mentioning it to their 
guv’nors.” 

A groan was the only response. 

“Oh, yes, brutal,” continued the old man ; “espe- 


58 


THE SILVER KING 


cially to young fellows as borrow their guv’nors' 
money to put on ’orses/’ 

Corkett’s legs could hardly sustain his weight. 
‘‘D’you mean it?’’ he cried. “I say, how long do 
you think I shall get?” 

His companion seemed to be pondering. It was 
with some deliberation that he at last answered : 
“Well, if you happen to get a nice, kindly, feeling 
judge, with his stummick in good working order, 
you might get off with, say — seven years.” 

“Seven years!” The words were scarcely 
audible. 

“Yes, but don’t reckon on that. There was a 
young fellow tried at the Old Bailey a week or two 
ago for borrowing money just as you’ve done. A 
handsome, pleasant young man he seemed to be, 
too, just like you.” The white beard wagged 
mournfully. 

“And what did he get?” feverishly whispered 
Corkett. 

“Fourteen years, I think. Yes, fourteen years. 
Now, come, come; bear up!” for Corkett had 
fallen on his shoulder, and was shaking with noisy 
sobs. He slowly calmed down. But it was with 
a fresh access of grief that he asked : 

“I say, what’s it like in ” 

“Speaking purely from hearsay,” returned Mr. 
Coombe gravely, “it ain’t at all likely to suit a 
young man of your constitution. Skilly won’t 


THE SILVER KING 


59 


relish much after champagne, will it? And as for 
the treadmill, though it’s a prime exercise, as a 
game it ain’t to be compared with billiards.” 

'^Oh, what can I do? What can I do?” sobbed 
Corkett again. 

‘‘Well,” said the old man, his voice becoming 
^ wonderfully soft and insinuating, “I may let you 
know as I’ve took a bit of a fancy to you, and I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do. I’ll lend you the eighty 
pounds.” 

The effect on the clerk was electrical. 

“What, you will! But, I say, you are an old’ 
brick!” 

He grasped his benefactor by the hand and shook 
it vigorously. 

Mr. Coombe looked at him curiously, and his 
voice become more friendly than ever. 

“Yes, I’ll lend you the eighty pounds — provided 
you oblige me in a little matter.” 

“Why, of course. I’ll do anything for you.” 

“You live at 114 Hatton Garden, don’t you? 
Now, who sleeps in the house besides you?” 

“Only my guv’nor and the old porter.” 

“Your guv’nor spends his evenings out, don’t 
he?” 

“He comes in about twelve as a rule.” 

“What’s the porter like?” 

“As deaf as a post.” 

“Well now,” said Mr. Coombe, “there’s a friend 


60 


THE SILVER KING 


of mine wants to spend half an hour in your 
guv’nor’s sitting-room to-night He’s a photog- 
rapher, and he’s taking views of London. Could 
you let us into the house, and keep that old porter 
out of the way?” 

Corkett’s eyes opened wide. The old man’s tone 
had grown mysterious. 

*T say, what’s up?” he asked, a shade of defi- 
ance creeping into his voice. 

“Never you mind,” said the other. “It’s just 
this. Will you help us, or will you go to quod to- 
morrow ?” 

Corkett collapsed. 

“I’ll help you,” he muttered. 

“Now, there’s a sensible young man. Come 
along, then. But who’s that party looking at you 
across the road?” 

“Looking at me?” said Corkett in alarm. 

The “party” alluded to crossed the road as they 
spoke, and came up to them, searching their faces 
inquiringly. “I beg pardon,” he said in a 
trembling voice, “but I’ve lost my way among these 
courts and alleys, and goodness knows what mis- 
chief’s happening. Why,” he added with a look 
of relief, though still trembling, “you’re Mr. Ware’s 
clerk, aren’t you?” 

Corkett too looked relieved. “Oh, it’s Mr. Den- 
ver’s servant, ain’t it?” 

“Yes, it is. But for Heaven’s sake come on 


THE SILVER KING 61 


with me to Mr. Ware’s in Hatton Garden. Come 
on quick!” urged Jaikes piteously, plucking at the 
clerk’s sleeve. 

‘‘Why, whatever’s the matter?” said Corkett, 
with an uneasy glance at his companion, on whose 
face interest was written deep. 

“Murder’ll be the matter if we don’t stop it,” 
cried the butler. “My poor master’s got the drink 
in him. He’s beside himself, and has threatened to 
kill Mr. Ware. Oh, do come and help me to get 
him away.” 

Corkett stared at him open-mouthed. His glance 
wandered to his recent benefactor’s face, and then 
back to Jaikes. Fortunately for him, his new ac- 
quaintance came to his rescue. 

“Beg your pardon,” he said to the agitated 
Jaikes. “Was you looking for the young gentle- 
man as was drinking in the ‘Wheatsheaf’ just 
now ?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed. Have you seen anything of 
him?” implored Jaikes in reply. 

“Yes,” was the answer, “he came out of that 
public-house not two minutes ago, and took a cab 
and told the driver to go to Charing Cross. Didn’t 
he?” 

The veracious Mr. Coombe appealed to Corkett. 

“Yes, ’ansom,” said the equally truthful clerk. 

“Are you sure it was my master?” 

“Oh, yes, quite sure,” the old man with the beard 


62 


THE SILVER KING 


reassured him. ‘^And youVe sure it was Mr. 
Denver, ain’t you, Mr. Corkett?” 

‘*Yes, ril take my oath on it.” 

“It’s very lucky you met us,” chuckled the white- 
bearded one. “Now you’ll find your master at 
Charing Cross, if you make haste.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” the butler said. “I’ll 
go there straight.” 

Mr. Coombe chuckled again as Jaikes hobbled 
away. 

“Yes, do, you old fool,” he wheezed, “and 
you won’t find him. Ah, well, we shall have to 
look out and keep that drunken fellow out of our 
way. And now, my dear boy, you stroll on 
just in front of me. Don’t get out of my sight. 
That’s it.” 

“No,” replied Corkett, leading the way as de- 
sired, “and if once I get out of this mess. I’ll never 
get into another.” 


CHAPTER VII 


In the meantime Geoffrey Ware was leisurely 
making his way back to his rooms in Hatton Gar- 
den, humming a tune and thinking nothing of the 
violent scene he had just left. Much, indeed, of 
Denver’s fury had only broken out after his exit, 
so he had no idea of the final pandemonium of 
rage and ruin into which Denver had fallen; nor 
did he know that Denver was on his trail, pistol in 
hand, determined to kill him. 

Leisurely, therefore, he went his way, thinking 
his evil thoughts which, from the frequent smile 
on his lips, seemed to be not unpleasing. His 
enemy ruined ! That was pleasant indeed. Ruined, 
he repeated to himself, ruined, ruined! And at 
each repetition his evil smile grew more evil. 
Then there was Nelly, little Nelly Hathaway, 
whom he had once loved as purely as his nature 
could love, but now only desired in the wickedness 
of his heart. He hated her for having once 
rejected him; but desired her with an evil desire. 
Again the smile came to his lips. When she was 
ruined — when she was destitute and her children 
starving, would she perhaps come to him, to be 
63 


64 THE SILVER KING 


thrown aside and discarded as soon as he tired 
of her? 

Thus communing with himself he reached the 
house in which his rooms were, and let himself in. 
Still smiling, he ascended the stairs, and pushed 
open a door on the first floor. 

Geoffrey Ware was not a man who felt any 
need of concealing his tastes from those whom he 
admitted to his rooms. Photographs of actresses 
— mostly minor — and of ladies who tried to look 
like actresses, smiled at you from his mantelpiece 
and writing-bureau, while the panelled walls were 
gay with cartoons and sporting pictures. On the 
central table the periodicals beloved of the racing- 
man were scattered carelessly. A sideboard was 
decorated with a tantalus and several syphons, and 
an odour of cigar smoke pervaded the room and 
clung about the curtains, mingled with a faint 
scent of white rose, which stole through the half- 
open door of the inner room. 

Still smiling. Ware passed through into the inner 
room, his bedroom, turned up the light, and pro- 
ceeded to attire himself elaborately in evening 
dress. And as he dressed he thought more and 
more of his triumph — of his enemy ruined, of Nelly 
Hathaway ; and his expression grew more and more 
evil. Then, his toilet complete, he went to the bell 
and rang it furiously, with the violence of the 
habitually ill-tempered man. 


THE SILVER KING 


65 


‘That’s Mr. Ware’s bell, sure enough; no need 
to look at the indicator,” muttered Leaker, the old 
porter at 114 Hatton Garden, as he hastily though 
laboriously climbed the stairs and knocked at the 
door. 

“Come in,” cried a testy voice. 

As Leaker entered. Ware himself emerged from 
the bedroom in evening dress, and waited for the 
porter to help him into an overcoat. 

“I’m going out. Leaker,” he said. “Leave the 
front door on the latch.” 

“Yes, sir. Shall I wait up for you?” 

Ware shook his head. 

“No; I don’t know what time I shall be back. 
I may come in again in half an hour, or I may not 
come in at all. You can go to bed when you like. 
Good night.” 

He went out, followed by the porter after he had 
paused to put out the light. 

For a long while the room remained quiet and 
deserted. Nothing was to be heard except the 
ticking of the clock. Then suddenly a tiny soimd 
came from the direction of the window. Some- 
thing seemed to be glaring in through the lower 
panes, and there followed a faint, rasping noise, as 
of a hard substance being drawn across glass. A 
few minutes later the sash was softly raised and 
admitted the bulky body of a man, who dropped 
carefully on to the floor. 


66 


THE SILVER KING 


The intruder stopped for a moment where he had 
alighted, motionless and attentive. Then swiftly 
he flashed over the room a yellow ribbon of 
light from the lantern which he carried in his 
hand. His bloodshot, sullen eyes, overhung 
with heavy black brows, assumed a look of satis- 
faction. 

“Coast clear. That’s all right,” he grunted, and 
he moved stealthily to the sideboard against the 
farther wall. 

“That must be the place,” he went on, stooping 
down and peering behind it, passing his blunt fin- 
ger-tips over the woodwork. 

Then all at once he started, listening intently. 
A low, peculiar whistle, coming apparently from 
somewhere inside the house, had broken the silence, 
and was now repeated a little more insistently. 
The burglar nodded his head, went to the door of 
the room, and softly echoed the call, returning, 
however, at once to his inspection of the sideboard 
— a task which so engrossed him that he hardly 
raised his eyes when the door opened cautiously 
and admitted someone. 

“Is all clear?” 

Though the words were spoken in a whisper, 
they were plain and distinct. The lantern flashed 
for a second towards the doorway and revealed 
there, on the threshold, the tall man with the eye- 
glass who had so discouraged the venerable Mr. 


THE SILVER KING 


67 


Coombe’s garrulity in the bar of the ‘‘Wheat- 
sheaf/' 

*‘Yes, Captain/’ said the burglar, shutting off 
his lantern and rising to his feet. 

“Light,” whispered the other curtly, stepping 
into the room, and feeling his way towards the table. 

It was evident that the control exercised by the 
“Captain” over his confederates was almost un- 
limited, for at his order the broad-shouldered, 
bulldog man came obediently towards the table 
and turned the light full on. Then his rough 
hands applied themselves to the task of relieving 
his leader of his overcoat. He received no thanks. 
The Captain merely flicked a speck of dust from 
his perfectly fitting dress-coat, and, turning back 
his cuffs, commanded: 

“My tools. You’ll find them in the left-hand 
pocket of that coat.” 

The burglar silently drew a leather case from the 
pocket, handed it over, and folding the coat, placed 
it carefully on the table. His eyes watched his 
companion as he opened the case, fitted with bits 
of polished steel, and selected one. 

“Beauties, ain’t they ?” he asked. “I was a week 
making them jemmies. Captain.” 

The Captain nodded, with the nearest approach 
to geniality since he had entered the room. 

“Well, it was time well spent, Cripps,” he re- 
plied. “You’re a good workman. But what the 


68 


THE SILVER KING 


plague did you want me for to-night?’’ he went 
on less pleasantly. “I was just starting for Lady 
Blanche Wynter’s.” 

Cripps had turned to pull the sideboard away 
from the wall, but something in the other’s tone 
seemed to arouse him at last, submissive as he had 
hitherto been. 

‘What the devil has that got to do with me?” 
he snarled, pausing in his toil. “If you’re above 
your business, say so, and I’ll crack the crib 
myself.” 

The eyeglass turned on him coldly. The Cap- 
tain laid the case of tools on the table, after taking 
out two or three more pieces. 

“Give me the plan,” was all that he said. 

With a grunt Cripps pulled from his pocket a 
piece of paper, which he handed across the table. 

“The safe’s here, on the other side of the wall,” 
he explained, his professional interest getting the 
better of his temper as he pointed a dirty finger to 
the spot on the plan. “I thinks to myself when I 
was a-fixing up that there safe next door — I had 
the job last month — ^‘this’ll be a splendid plant for 
us,’ I thinks. And the gents there was extry par- 
tic’ler about having it made strong. There’ll be 
fifty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds in that 
safe,’ I hears them say. Fairly made me laugh to 
think how little they knew as the tip would come 
in so useful to me and some of my friends !” 


THE SILVER KING 


69 


The hoarse whisper appeared to pass unheeded 
by the ears of his companion, who was all the time 
busy with his study of the plan. Only when it 
ended he looked up and said brusquely : 

‘‘Shut up; not so much cackle. Now look 
alive, Cripps; I must be at Lady Blanche's dance 
at twelve." 

The mention of his leader’s aristocratic friends 
seemed invariably to have an irritating effect 
upon the bulldog man. He spat disgustedly and 
ejaculated : 

“Oh, blow Lady Blanche!" 

The Captain smiled grimly, but took no other 
notice of the remark. He had pieced together his 
instrument, and motioned to Cripps to stand aside. 
Passing behind the sideboard he started to drill 
into the panels of the wall, when suddenly a violent 
hammering somewhere downstairs, followed by the 
peal of a bell, made him stop. He dropped his 
glass from his eye, and looked at Cripps, whose 
ugly face had turned pale and whose lower jaw was 
hanging loose. 

“What’s that infernal row?’’ 

The Captain’s question was not answered by 
Cripps, who seemed paralysed, but heavy muffled 
steps were heard on the stairs, the door burst open, 
and there entered no other than Mr. Coombe, his 
pale blue eyes staring out of his head, and his whis- 
kers bristling round his broad white face. 


70 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Skinner — Cripps — my dear boys,” he gasped. 
“Here’s that tipsy fellow from the ‘Wheatsheaf.’ 
He’s down at the front door, playing hell and 
Tommy. He swears he’ll pull the house down if 
we don’t let him come up.” 

And as he spoke there came up to them again 
the furious pealing of the bell, almost torn from 
its socket, and the crash of the knocker on the door. 

The man whom he had addressed as Skinner 
looked furiously from the panting Coombe to the 
hole already commenced in the wall by the side- 
board. 

“What’s he want?” he asked. 

“Wants Mr. Ware. He won’t take our word 
he’s out,” returned Coombe, still grasping and tug- 
ging at his whiskers. “What can we do?” 

Skinner bit his lip for a moment, and then looked 
up with a swift, decisive nod. 

“Send him up here,” he said firmly. 

Coombe’s hand dropped from his whiskers, and 
his pale eyes opened wide with astonishment. 
“What, here?” he ejaculated. 

Skinner nodded again. “Yes. Tell him Mr. 
Ware’s at home, and send him up.” 

For a second the elder man hesitated, still star- 
ing, then, with a gesture of resignation, he left the 
room, and his feet could be heard descending the 
stairs. 

“Where’s my chloroform pad?” muttered 


THE SILVER KING 


71 


Skinner, searching in his pocket. “Ah, here it 
is! ril soon quiet him.’’ And drawing from his 
coat a wad of cotton wool and a small bottle, with 
averted head he poured the contents of the bottle 
5 upon the wool. 

“Now, quick, Cripps, out with that light,” he 
commanded, turning towards the burglar, who 
stood irresolute between the table and the window, 
casting glances at the latter as though nothing 
would please him better than to go out by the same 
way as he had entered. “Get over there, by the 
door,” Skinner went on sharply. 

His tone, his firm, assured manner, seemed to 
rouse his subordinate’s courage, for Cripps puHed 
himself together, and without a word took up his 
position beside the half-closed door facing Skinner, 
who on the other side waited calmly, the chloro- 
formed pad held in a steady hand. 

Coombe’s voice came again to them from the 
stairs. “There he is,” the old man was saying. 
“You’ll find Mr. Ware in that room. Straight in 
there !” 

There was a stumble, an oath, a quick rush, and 
Denver was in the room, his revolver flourishing 
wildly in his hand. 

“Now, you hound!” he shouted. “Come out 
and settle accounts with me. Come out and show 
your face. Here, where are you?” 

He had no time to say more, no time to peer into 


72 


THE SILVER KING 


the blackness of the ominously silent room; for 
with a spring like a panther’s, so swift and certain 
was it, Skinner was upon him, and the chloroformed 
pad was pressed against his nostrils. More slowly, 
Cripps seized on him from behind and caught at 
the hand which flourished the revolver. 

For a moment Denver fought wildly, but 
Skinner’s grip round his neck was like a band of 
steel; the burglar’s huge embrace, added to his 
chief’s strength, was forcing the victim backwards, 
the sickly sweet, suffocating fumes of the chloro- 
form were sweeping through the cells of his already 
overcharged brain, making his temples throb with 
a pain that was almost unbearable, relaxing his 
muscles, killing in him even his will to resist. He 
felt himself being carried across the room, then 
black darkness fell upon him, consciousness ceased, 
and limply he slid upon the floor and was 
still. 

Skinner knelt over him and kept the pad firmly 
pressed to his nostrils until it was clear that the 
chloroform had done its work. ‘‘Take the revolver 
away now and put it on the table,” he said. 

Cripps forced the weapon from the senseless 
man’s fingers, and did as he was bidden, while 
Skinner rose to his feet again. 

“Put him over there, out of the way,” he 
ordered. 

Cripps dragged the helpless, inert body along 


THE SILVER KING 


73 


the floor and deposited it on the hearthrug. 
Skinner threw another glance at the unconscious 
form. 

“Lie there, you brute,” he said, wiping his 
fingers and passing a careful hand over the disorder 
of his shirt-front. “You won't trouble us any 
more. Now, Cripps, look alive. Show me a 
light.” 

Cripps obediently uncovered his lantern, and the 
work on the wall recommenced. But it was plain 
that Destiny was protecting the diamonds in the 
safe behind the wall. For once more steps were 
heard rapidly ascending the stairs, not muffled like 
those of Coombe, but lighter, quicker. 

Skinner wheeled round viciously. 

“What the devil ” he began, but had no 

time to say more before the door was flung open 
and closed again, and a breathless, terrified voice 
broke in: 

“Here, where are you? I say, clear out of this, 
all of you. Here’s my guv’nor coming back ! Oh, 
crimes, here he is !” 

Corkett — it was the clerk — stood helpless as his 
employer, close behind him, opened the door and 
struck a match. Neither Skinner nor Cripps 
stirred, so taken by surprise were they. 

Ware gave a swift glance round the room, then 
stopped Corkett, who was in the act of squeezing 
past him. 


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THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Hullo !” he said sharply. “What are you doing 
here? Who are these men? What business have 
you got here?” 

There was no immediate answer to his questions. 
Corkett’s eyes had fallen before his master’s 
glance. The burglar stood dumb, uncertain 
whether to fling himself upon the new arrival as 
he had upon Denver, or to fly for escape to the 
window. Only Skinner made an effort to control 
the situation, and crossed swiftly to hide the tell- 
tale case of burglars’ implements upon the table. 

He looked at Ware calmly. 

“We are friends of your clerk,” he said. “We 
met him at the Derby, and he insisted on our 
coming here to spend the evening with him, and 
so naturally ... of course . . .” He smiled. As 
he spoke he had been slipping the instruments 
softly into the leather case. 

“Naturally, you see . . .” he went on, with an- 
other smile at the astonished Ware. “. . . But 
excuse me; I have an appointment.” 

But now Ware stepped up to the table, attracted 
by the gleam of the steel in Skinner’s hand. The 
light from the still burning match between his 
fingers fell full on the case of instruments. His 
first suspicion, which this man’s coolness had al- 
most dissipated, sprang up again, and he stretched 
out his arm. 

“Wait a bit,” he cried. “I want this cleared up. 


THE SILVER KING 


75 


Ah! these are burglars’ tools! And a revolver! 
Help ! Thieves ! Murder !” 

He made a snatch at the revolver. 

“You fool!” hissed Skinner, seizing it before 
Ware could touch it. “Since you won’t be quiet, 
take that!” 

There was a flash, a report, a scream, and Ware 
pitched heavily forward, rolled over upon his back, 
and lay quiet. 

For one dreadful instant silence reigned su- 
preme. Then Coombe slipped through the door 
into the room. 

“My dear boy, this is terrible,” he groaned, gaz- 
ing past Skinner’s shoulder at the motionless 
body and white face, illuminated by the streak of 
light thrown upon them by the lantern in Cripps’s 
hand. 

“This is terrible!” he groaned again. 

Corkett, creeping behind him, peered down too, 
his teeth chattering furiously. 

“He’s killed him! He’s killed him!” he stam- 
mered. 

Skinner had remained for a moment as though 
stupefied, the smoking weapon in his hand. He 
gave a slight shudder, but quickly pulled himself 
together and set the revolver down on the table 
again. 

“Put that case back! Sharp!” he ordered. 
“Light out, Cripps. Everybody ofif!” 


76 


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The dazed men hastened to obey. Only Corkett 
still stood watching impotently, his foolish mouth 
twitching and trembling. 

‘‘We shall swing for this/^ he whimpered. 

Skinner turned on him viciously. ''You will, if 
you don’t keep your mouth shut.” 

Cripps, the least moved of all the party, stepped 
towards the window. 

“We must risk the leads,” he whispered hoarsely. 
“Come on. We can’t be seen coming out of the 
door.” 

He raised the sash as he spoke. 

“Yes, come on,” said Coombe, seizing hold of 
Corkett and giving him a violet shake. “Come 
on, or they’ll collar you for this.” 

Hurrying the quaking clerk to the window, he 
pushed him through, and got out after him. 

Skinner watched them go, and then turned to 
Ware, rigid and still, looking up with glazed eyes 
towards the ceiling. “I’ve gone a step too far this 
time,” he murmured to himself. “The infernal 
fool! Why wouldn’t he let me pass?” 

And with an oath he followed his companions. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A FUMBLING hand tried the handle, and as the 
door opened a flicker of light showed itself on the 
wall. An elderly man shuffled in, holding a 
candlestick and blinking wearily about him. He 
had evidently been disturbed from sleep, and the 
disorder of his dress suggested a hasty rise from 
bed. 

*T thought I heard a noise like a shot,” 
he grumbled. ‘^Must have been dreaming. I 
wonder how long Pve been dozing.” 

Leaker — for it was the porter — lifted the candle 
a little higher, and peered round the room. 

‘‘Mr. Ware not come home yet,” he grumbled 
again. He moved towards the mantelpiece to look 
at the clock, and in so doing almost tripped over 
the inanimate body lying on the hearthrug. 

“Why, what’s this?” he muttered nervously. 

He turned the light of his candle on the man’s 
features. 

“Mr. Denver! However did he get in here?” 

Leaker set down his candlestick and, kneeling 
down on the rug, gave the unconscious Denver 
a vigorous shake. 


77 


78 


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“Mr. Denver!’' he shouted. “Mr. Denver, 
sir, wake up!” 

A harsh rattle in the other’s throat was the only 
answer, but the porter shook him again. 

“Don’t lay there, sir,” he persisted. “Let me 
help you into this chair.” 

Denver still lay limp and motionless, and gave 
no sign that Leaker’s words had reached 
him. 

“Drunk again !” grunted the old man. 

“Do you hear me, Mr. Denver?” he said more 
roughly. “Wake up.” And as he spoke he 
passed his hands under Denver’s armpits and 
lifted him up sufficiently to drop him into an easy- 
chair. The concussion had the effect which words 
had been unable to produce. Denver’s eyes 
opened and he gave a gasp. 

“Al’right, al’right, don’t be in such a hurry.” 

He looked at Leaker stupidly. 

“Where am I?” he asked. 

“You’re in Mr. Ware’s rooms in Hatton Gar- 
den, sir,” returned Leaker,- more civilly now that 
the gentleman had become articulate. 

“ ’Course I am,” said Denver and, as though 
satisfied with the discovery, he let his head sink 
into the cushions of the chair, and closed his eyes. 

Leaker looked at him doubtfully. 

“Shall I light you downstairs?” he inquired. 

“No. I’ll go soon. Who is it? Leaker?” 


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79 


“Yes, it’s Leaker.” 

“You know me . . . Leaker?” said Denver, 
without opening his eyes. 

“Yes, I know you, sir,” was the dry response. 

“Ld better let him stay where he is. He won’t 
do any harm,” Leaker muttered to himself, and 
then bending down to Denver, he raised his voice. 

“I’ll leave you the candle, sir, and you can go 
home when you’ve quite woke up. Well, good 
night, sir. I’m going to bed. Mind you latch 
the street door when you go out. Good night, 
sir.” ^ 

“Latch street door. Al’right, Leaker.” 

The door of the room closed behind the porter 
with what seemed to Denver totally unnecessary 
violence, rudely dispelling his peaceful drowsiness 
and making his head throb. He sat up with a 
frown. 

“What’s up? What’s the matter?” he asked. 

No answer came from the silent room, and 
Denver looked about him rather uneasily as he 
began to take in his surroundings more clearly. 

“What am I doing here?” he said to himself 
in a querulous voice. “This won’t do. Get 
home, you drunken scoundrel ! Aren’t you 
’shamed of yourself, Will Denver, keeping your 
poor wife sitting up half the night for yt)u? Get 
home, do you hear! Get home!” 

As he rose to his feet, shocking pains ran 


80 


THE SILVER KING 


through his temples, his ears rang, and a mist 
obscured his sight. A terrible feeling of nausea 
seized him and for a moment blotted out all other 
sensations. He swayed heavily and grasped the 
head of the chair to prevent himself from falling 
to the ground. It was some minutes before he 
was able to think again. Slowly things began to 
piece themselves together in his sick brain. What 
was he doing in this room — in Geoffrey Ware’s 
room? Yes, it was Geoffrey Ware’s room. Some- 
one had just said so, and besides, he could dimly 
recognise the furniture even by the feeble candle- 
light. Ware’s room! That scoundrel’s! 

Recollections forced themselves upon him with 
ever-increasing pain. Ware had insulted his wife 
. . . somewhere . . . last night, or was it this night ? 
Yes, and he had said he was going to kill him 
for it. Of course he had. Still, that didn’t 
explain how he came to be in Ware’s rooms now. 
Oh, but how could he make things out when his 
head was going round in this awful way? Better 
get home, and wait until this agony was over . . . 
better get home. 

Mechanically he put out his hand for his hat. 
Where was it? Not here. Must be somewhere 
in the room, couldn’t have gone. 

He picked up the candlestick which Leaker had 
left him and began to look round. Not on the 
table. Perhaps it was on the floor. What was 


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81 


that dark thing over there between the table 
and the bedroom door? Not a hat . . . but some- 
thing. 

Puzzled, Denver drew nearer and let the un- 
steady candle-light fall on the part of the room 
where the mysterious object lay. Why ... it was 
a man lying there! A man stretched on his back, 
quite still, with his face turned upward and his 
eyes wide open. A man — and he had the look of 
. . . no, it was Geoffrey Ware! 

‘‘Geoffrey Ware! What are you doing here? 
Get up, will you?'' 

Denver's voice was strained and unnatural, like 
some grotesque imitation of a frightened child's. 
He knelt down painfully, the candle tilting in his 
grasp and dropping its fat on the carpet. Breath- 
ing heavily, he bent over the silent form and gazed 
into the face. Why was Ware so quiet? Had he 
just come in? He still had his overcoat on, but- 
toned up. What was that mark on the breast of 
the coat? Denver started up and looked at his 
hand. 

Blood! 

Blood! A bullet wound! Ware had been shot 
. . . and he had come to his rooms to shoot him. 

There came before Denver's eyes the vision of a 
scene which had happened . . . how long ago? 
He could not say, but the picture grew more vivid 
as he strove to think. He could see himsHf come 


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in at that door over there. Ware’s door, with some- 
thing in his hand. All was dark. Just as he got 
in, somebody sprang at him — Ware, of course — 
and there was a struggle. Then, what ? 

That was a revolver on the table beside him, 
his own revolver. He picked it up. One barrel 
empty! So he must have killed Geoffrey Ware. 

Ah, no! but he couldn’t be dead. Denver flung 
himself down beside the body, caught at the limp 
arm, felt the pulse. Not a movement. He un- 
buttoned Ware’s overcoat and frantically tore at 
his shirt-front, pulling it open and bending his ear 
to the heart. It was quite still; there was not a 
beat to be heard. 

Shudder after shudder ran through Denver’s 
frame as he rose to his feet once more. He was no 
longer drunk. He was sober, terribly sober, and 
terribly aware that he had done this awful deed. 
Geoffrey Ware was dead, and he was his murderer. 

What was to be done ? His fingers closed on the 
revolver, and he thrust it into a pocket. He spied 
his hat on a chair and put it on his head. He did 
these things quietly enough, and picked up the 
candlestick again, as though to light himself on 
his way to the door. Before he went, however, he 
paused, as if drawn by some dreadful attraction. 
He stepped up to Ware’s side and peered down 
into the still face again. 


THE SILVER KING 


83 


He gave a ghastly cry : 

“Don't stare at me like that, Geoffrey ! Close 
your eyes ! Close them.” 

Feverishly he snatched the cloth off the table, and 
threw it over the dead man’s head and shoulders. 

His face was that of a madman, and his lips 
moved incessantly as he staggered towards the 
threshold of the room, down the stairs, and out 
through the hall door into Hatton Garden. 


CHAPTER IX 


One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! 

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed out sharply 
through the silent room. Nelly Denver started in 
her chair and gave a weary sigh. Then she rose 
and went to the window to look out, as she had 
done so often already since her return from the 
'‘Wheatsheaf” the night before. Yet what was 
the use of looking out? The small front garden 
was bright in the sunshine of this young May 
morning, and the sparrows were twittering cheer- 
fully on the branches of the few trees which were 
even now breaking into leaf. All seemed as fair 
as yesterday when she had bidden good-bye to 
Will, as optimistic as ever that he would that day 
“redeem their fortunes” and set them on their feet 
again. Yet, in reality, how different was every- 
thing — except the sunshine and the birds and the 
trees ! 

Nelly turned from the window with another and 
deeper sigh, and her gaze wandered round the 
room. 

Their fortunes! Week by week, month by 
month, she had seen them decline. This house, in 
84 


THE SILVER KING 


85 . 


the unfashionable part of London, to which she and 
Will had moved a year ago, was itself sad evidence 
of the descent. With a pang she remembered 
cherished objects — wedding presents, birthday 
gifts, memorials of some lucky day — which had 
gone to supply the insatiable demand for ready 
money. Will had been reluctant, of course, to 
accept the sacrifices, but in the end the faith of a 
backer, sure that he is ‘"on a good thing,” had 
convinced him, and the result had always been 
the same. 

Yet even now, she thought, even in this depleted 
home, in an unfashionable suburb, life might still 
be borne, if only Will could learn his lesson, if only 
he would come back, as she had implored him the 
night before, and make a fresh start. How hard 
she would work to help him. But perhaps he 
would never come. 

A noise at the door sent a nervous spasm through 
her. It was but a gentle step, however, which 
entered the room; and a kind, anxious old face 
looked into hers. 

“Jaikes. . . . Ah, you startled me!” she cried. 

The old servant shook his head and choked a 
sigh. 

‘T can’t see nothing of him, missus,” he said. 

“Oh! you don’t think he has carried out his. 
threat ?” 


86 


THE SILVER KING 


Brave as she was, Nelly Denver trembled as her 
eyes searched the old man's imploringly. 

“Not he, missus; don't you fear. Mr. Will 
won't do no harm." 

Jaikes spoke with all the cheeriness he could 
muster, reproaching himself that any words of his 
should have added to the sorrow of his beloved 
mistress. 

“Now, don't you sit up any longer, missus," 
he besought her. 

“I'm used to it, Jaikes," she answered him with 
a sad smile. 

“No, but this sitting up o' nights is making 
you quite pale and thin," he cried. “And such 
bonny rosy cheeks as you used to have in the old 
days!" 

“Ah, the old days!" Nelly murmured. “The 
happy, happy times in the dear old Grange that 
will never come again!" 

“Yes, indeed they will, missus. I don't know 
why, but somehow something inside me prophesies 
that they will." 

“God bless you, Jaikes" — ^her voice was broken 
and tears filled her eyes as she laid a hand on his 
arm. “I don't know how I shall bear my troubles 
when you are gone." 

“Gone — yes, Jaikes; we're ruined," she con- 
tinued, seeing him start. “We can't pay you the 
wages we owe you." 


THE SILVER KING 


87 


“Time enough when I asks you,” was the 
strangely gruff response. 

“Ah, but we can’t afford to keep a servant any 
longer. You have clung to us all through, my 
faithful old friend, but we shall have to part with 
you now.” 

A dogged, obstinate expression crept over the 
old man’s countenance. 

“Will you, though?” he said. “You won’t 
find me so easy to get rid of.” 

“We’re a sinking ship; you’d better leave us 
before we go down.” 

His head wagged vigorously. “No, missus,” 
he returned emphatically. “My voyage is pretty 
well over, and if you go down I’ll go down with 
you. I stuck to you in your prosperity. I took 
your wages when your purse was full and your 
hands were free. I ain’t going to leave you now 
misfortune’s come and the cupboard’s empty. No, 
never !” 

“Dear, kind Jaikes! But you knov/ you could 
go back to the Grange. They want a butler there, 
and would be glad to have you.” 

Jaikes’ s lips twisted whimsically. 

“I dare say they would,” he remarked. “But 
they ain’t going to get me. I know when I’m 
well off.” 

Nelly abandoned the useless contest. Her eyes 


88 


THE SILVER KING 


rested on the weary lines of the old face, and she 
said: 

‘‘All this time IVe been forgetting how tired 
you must be. Go to bed, Jaikes, and get some 
sleep. Yes, do now. Fll call you if I want you 
for anything. Go to bed, Jaikes, go just to please 
me!’’ she implored. 

The old man hesitated, but he could not let her 
beg like this. However unwilling, he must go 
upstairs, if only to pacify her. 

“Very well, missus,” he said slowly, “if you 
wish it.” 

“There’s a good Jaikes,” she smiled. “Good 
flight.” 

“Not good night, missus; it’s good morning.” 

The door closed softly behind him, and his feet 
could be heard shuffling along the passage. Nelly 
Denver was alone in the room once more. The 
old servant’s last words echoed in her ears: “Not 
good night; it’s good morning.” 

Ah! if it were the dawn of a new and happy 
life! 

• ••••*•• 

What was that? It sounded as though a latch- 
key were being inserted in the front door. 
Who could it be? Who but one man in the 
world ? 

Hasty steps crossed the hall and stopped for a 


THE SILVER KING 


89 


moment on the threshold of the room. Then the 
door opened. 

‘‘Will!’’ screamed the young woman. 

Wilfred Denver’s face was ghastly. The flush of 
drink had all left it, and an earthy pallor had taken 
its place, from which the bloodshot eyes glared out 
in terrible contrast. It was almost the face of a. 
madman, and for a moment Nelly seemed scarce 
to recognise her husband. Then a frightful 
shudder ran down her from head to foot. 

“Will!” she cried again. “Ah, not that! not 
that! For mercy’s sake. Will, say it’s not 
true!” 

Denver’s voice appeared to be coming from a far 
distance — or another world. The words struck 
slowly on her ears, slowly and brokenly. 

“Ah, if I could! . . . But it’s true . . . I’ve 
killed him!” 

Something seemed to burst in her brain, and a 
great darkness surged round her. She felt like a 
drowning creature, over whose head the waters 
had closed. Then it was as though she had come 
up to the surface again. All was light once more. 
Denver was standing in the room, saying dully : 

“Oh, if I could only wipe it out! If I could 
bring back the past few hours! Fool that I am! 
Fool! Fool!” 

Nelly drew near to him. “How did it happen?” 
she asked swiftly. 


90 


THE SILVER KING 


Denver looked at her, but his eyes appeared to 
be gazing far beyond her. 

“I don’t know. I was mad, dazed. I went to 
his rooms. It was dark — I called out for him — 
he sprang upon me from behind the door — we 
struggled — I suppose my revolver must have gone 
off — and then — I don’t know what happened.” He 
paused and gulped. ‘The next thing I remember 
was that Leaker, the porter, woke me and left me — > 
and I looked round the room — and there he was 
—dead!” 

Up to now there had been a singular absence of 
excitement in Denver’s tones. He had not even 
raised them as he began to describe the scene in 
Hatton Garden. But now a convulsive tremor 
seized him, and his voice rose in agony. 

“Dead!” he shrieked. “Shot by me! Look, 
look!” — and he started back — “he’s staring at me 
now. Look! He’ll stare at me for ever. There, 
don’t you see him? Hide me, hide me from him!” 

Nelly watched him for a moment, terror-stricken, 
as he recoiled across the room, his eyes apparently 
fixed on some awful object on the floor. Then she 
ran forward and, as he stumbled on to a couch, 
leant over him, and covered his eyes gently with 
her hands, as though to shield him from the vision. 

“Oh, my poor Will!” she murmured. 

He pushed her hands away. “Don’t touch 
me,” he wailed. “Don’t touch me, I say. 


THE SILVER KING 


91 


There^s blood upon my hands. Oh, my poor girl, 
have I brought you to this 

But the sight of her husband’s prostration had 
banished all Nelly Denver’s weakness. ^‘Don’t 
think of me — think of yourself,” she insisted, 
catching him by the hands and endeavouring to 
assist him to his feet. “You must hide.” 

“Hide? No, let them come and take me. You 
will be well rid of me,” said Denver. The touch 
of her soft hands appeared to irritate him. He 
shook them off again. “Don’t pity me,” he cried. 
“If there is a spark of love for me left in your 
breast, crush it out. Oh, I’ve been the maddest 
fool that was ever sent upon this earth to work 
mischief !” 

She stood silent, as though looking for some 
inspiration. 

“What time was it when it happened?” she 
asked at last. 

“I don’t know. A little before twelve, I think. 
I’ve been rushing about the streets ever since, try- 
ing to get away from him and from myself.” 

“Well, you mustn’t stay here,” she urged. 
“This will be the first place they will search. You 
must go to one of the big railway stations and take 
a ticket for a long distance — do you see ? You must 
make it appear you are trying to leave the country,’ 
and then you must get out of the train at the first 
station, and throw them off the scent.” 


THE SILVER KING 




Her eyes searched his face with painful anxiety. 
She seemed to discern something which gave birth 
to hope. She knelt on the couch and put her arms 
round his neck, whispering: ‘‘You will do as I 
tell you, wont you. Will?” 

This time he did not shake her off. 

“Oh, my wife!” he said, with the first note of 
tenderness since he had entered the room. “Why 
don’t you hate me? Why don’t you curse me?” 

“Because you have never had so much need of 
my love and of my prayers as you have now. But 
we are wasting time. What money have you?” 

Denver thrust his hands into his pockets, one 
after another. He produced nothing but a 
revolver. 

“Ah, this cursed thing!” he groaned. “Take 
it away before I do any more mischief with it.” 

“Never mind that now. I’ll get rid of it when 
you’re gone,” she said, laying it on the table. 
“What money have you?” 

He looked at her desperately. “Not a shilling 
in the world !” 

“Nor have I. You will* be lost — and all for the 
want of a few pounds !” 


CHAPTER X 


‘‘No, missus, he shall not; Fve saved up a little 
money against a rainy day, and Master Will’s as 
welcome to it as if it were his own.” 

Husband and wife turned towards the odd, stout 
old figure standing in the doorway. 

“Oh, Jaikes!” cried Nelly, “the worst has 
happened. Don’t ask what it is. Only help us!” 

At her words and look, the old man’s face 
blanched to a ghastly white and he staggered; but 
he collected himself again bravely. 

“Help you! Aye, that I will,” he stammered. 
^‘But what can I do?” 

“Quick ! get your money.” 

He was turning to go, when she called him back. 

“Wait! Your master must have some disguise. 
Oh, think, what can he have?” 

Jaikes paused, ruffling with a shaky hand the 
scanty hair which fringed his pate. “I don’t know, 
he muttered, “unless — well, there’s my poor 
brother Frank’s things, which they sent me when 
he died in hospital. How would they do ?” 

“Sailor’s clothes! They’ll do. Get them quick, 
and put them in a bag, and get your master’s over- 
93 


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THE SILVER KING 


coat and hat. Make haste! It’s a matter of life 
and death!” 

Denver listened silently while his wife and old 
servant debated how to save him. As Jaikes left 
the room, he still stood without a word, a hopeless 
expression in his eyes which roused Nelly’s fears 
lest after all she had failed to inspire him with a 
determination to escape, if escape were yet possible. 

She clung to him almost fiercely, crying, ‘‘Oh, 
Will, you must get away — for my sake !” 

He shook his head. “I shan’t be able to get ojff. 
They’ll soon run me down, Nell.” 

“Oh, no, no, no! You must escape, you shall! 
How I shall pray for it this night! You will do 
your utmost for my sake, won’t you? And you 
^vill find means of letting me know where you 
are?” 

“Yes,” said Denver. “I’ll go.” 

He looked at her with haggard eyes. 

“The children!” he murmured. “My little Ned 
and Cissy — dare I kiss them before I go?” 

“Yes. Come. They are still asleep.” 

“No, no! I am not fit to kiss them. Oh, Nelly, 
Nelly, when they grow up and ask for their father, 
what will you say?” 

Denver gave way completely, and his sobs were 
terrible to hear. Nelly strove in vain to calm him, 
and it was with feelings of relief that she heard 
Jaikes approaching again, for on his return Denver, 


THE SILVER KING 


95 


with a desperate effort, pulled himself together, and 
faced him. 

‘‘Here you are. Master Will,'' panted the old 
man. “Here's your coat, and here's the portman- 
teau. You'll find my poor brother Frank’s things 
inside — he was about your figure. And this is the 
purse. There’s nearly forty pounds inside it." 

“I can’t take your savings, Jaikes,” groaned his 
master, as he struggled into his coat. 

“Ah, don’t say mine. Master Will. It all came 
from you, and if the last drop of blood in my old 
heart could save you, you should have it as well." 

“Quick, dear. You must take it,” pleaded 
Nelly. 

Denver closed his eyes wearily. “Give me a 
few pounds, then, and I’ll shift for myself. Here, 
Jaikes, you keep the rest ... for her. . . . You'll 
take care of her, won’t you ?" 

“You needn’t ask me that,” choked Jaikes. 

Denver wrung his hand, and was turning to give 
Nelly a last embrace when a thundering knock was 
heard at the front door. 

“They have come for me," he said. “Look 
-through the window, Jaikes, and see who 
it is." 

“A chap with a billycock hat and check 
trousers," whispered the old man, peering through 
the curtains. 

“It must be the detective.” Denver looked at 


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THE SILVER KING 


his wife with the expression of a hunted animal 
run to earth. ‘‘What shall I do?’' he asked her, 
with a pathetic reliance on her strength. 

“This way,” she said quietly; “out through 
the back garden and into the lane. They may not 
be watching there. Quick! We’ll try to detain 
the man at the door.” 

“Good-bye. Forgive me, my wife ; forgive 
me!” Denver murmured passionately, and with a 
last embrace he was gone. 

A second tremendous knock shook the house. 
Nelly turned to Jaikes. “Go to your room,” she 
said, “and look out of your window. Ask the man 
to wait a minute until you can come down to him. 
Keep him as long as you can.” 

Jaikes nodded his head and crept silently from 
the room. 

Once more Nelly was alone. She sank into a 
chair. Oh, this intolerable suspense! While 
Wilfred was there before her, weak, imploring her 
counsel, her nerves had borne her up bravely. But 
now, with nothing between her and her terror lest 
he should be caught, the agony was too much for 
her to endure. She swayed in her chair, and would 
have fallen, but that she was startled into activity 
again by a crash of glass. 

She looked quickly at the window. A heavily 
built man was on the ledge, his arm through 


THE SILVER KING 


97 


the broken pane, and he was pushing up the 
frame. 

Nelly gave a shriek. The man raised the window 
far enough to admit his body, and stepped down 
into the room. 

It was Baxter the detective. Quiet and unemo- 
tional as he usually was, his keen features were now 
alive with excitement, and his quick eyes flashed 
almost fiercely on Nelly as he faced her. 

“What do you want she asked him, one 
glance telling her the truth. 

“Mr Wilfred Denver. Is he at home?’’ 

“Yes, of course he is,” she said, twisting her 
pale features into a smile which she desperately 
knew could not appear natural. “He is upstairs 
in bed. What do you want him for?” 

“I think you know,” the detective answered 
dryly; “but if you don’t. I’d rather not tell you. 
I want to see him at once,” he went on sharply. 

“Yes, but on what business? Can’t you tell 
me? I am his wife.” 

“God help you, then.” 

“Why, why? Tell me your business. I must 
— I will know.” 

“Well, then, since you zvill know, I want him 
on a charge of murder.” 

Though she had known the blow was about to 
fall, she could not resist the shudder that it forced 


98 


THE SILVER KING 


from her. ‘‘Murder!’’ she cried. “Oh, he is 
innocent! He will be able to explain.” 

“No doubt; but I must see him at once.” 

“I’ll tell him,” said Nelly, trying to make her 
voice sound calm, yet feeling her knees give way 
under her. “Will you kindly sit down and wait 
a few moments until he has had time to dress?” 

The detective looked at her, his sharp eyes 
taking in the whole situation. Then he spoke 
more gently : 

“Mrs. Denver, forgive me. You are not telling 
me the truth. Your husband is not in the house.” 

“Yes, yes, he is,” gasped Nelly wildly. “Just 
wait a few minutes. What makes you think I am 
deceiving you? Wait; sit down. I will fetch him 
to you.” 

She took a few steps towards the door, and then 
started back, for another man at this moment 
darted into the room, almost knocking her down. 

“Here, Sam, look alive!” he shouted. “Our 
man’s got away through the back into a cab. Be 
quick, and we may catch him yet.” 

The detective gave a furious exclamation, and 
a fierce glance at Nelly, whose limbs refused to 
support her further. Then his eyes turned swiftly 
to the revolver which Denver had handed to his 
wife, and which lay openly on the table where she 
had placed it. 

He picked it up. “A revolver, with one barrel 


THE SILVER KING 


99 


fired!’’ he ejaculated. “We’ll see if the bullet 
will fit.” 

He thrust it into his pocket and turned quickly 
to the door. 

Nelly, trying to recover herself, made a vain 
effort to restrain him, clinging to his coat with 
trembling hands, but he wrenched himself from her 
grasp. 

“I must do my duty, Mrs. Denver,” he said. 
“Stand aside.”. And, pushing his man before 
him, he darted out. 

“My God!” cried Nelly. “I can do no more,” 
and with a heartrending shriek she fell senseless 
across the threshold. 


CHAPTER XI 


Saved ! 

But was he saved? Wilfred Denver leaned back^ 
huddled up in the corner of the hansom which^ 
ill-smelling, badly horsed night cab as it was, had 
yet appeared to him as a Heaven-sent answer to 
his cry for help as he fled from that thunderous 
knocking at his door and darted out into the street. 

''To Euston — as quick as you can go!’' he had 
cried, catching sight of the cab and its belated 
driver’s raised whip, and flinging himself into the 
vehicle. "Double fare if we catch the seven-forty 
train !” and they were off. 

Quickly he had raised the flap at the back of the 
seat, and fixed his haggard eyes upon the gate 
he had slammed behind him in his flight, watch- 
ing with teeth clenched and hands gripping the 
cushions, listening with drumming ears for the 
shouts, the rush of footsteps, the pursuers whom 
every second he expected to burst in howling 
chorus from his house. What was going on there 
in that ruined home? he wondered. What would 
he not have given to know? Had those who 
knocked so fiercely forced an entry, and were they 
searching for him now? Had Nelly kept them at 
100 


THE SILVER KING 


101 


bay, or had they discovered his flight, -and even 

now was the door about to open and But the 

cab rounded the corner, the horse, urged to a gallop 
by its willing driver, sped away, and he was safe. 

Street after street was left behind them, yard 
after yard of the journey that seemed so long was 
covered, and it seemed that pursuit had been out- 
distanced. But now new terrors commenced to 
envelop him. Why were all the people looking at 
him? Was it his white, strained face, his blood- 
shot, haggard eyes? Were they suspicious, these 
passers-by? — few, fortunately, from the early hour 
— suspicious of the frightened, glaring man, this 
horse urged to a gallop, these clattering wheels — 
wheels that to his ears shrieked aloud, like all the 
voices round him : “Stop Wilfred Denver, the 
murderer of Geoffrey Ware!’' In his terror he 
felt they were. Here, a man stared at him, 
stopping to watch the cab swing by. There, a 
woman, startled, looked up, raising her hand. 
No, he was mistaken, they let him pass; but oh, 
the terror of those moments! My God! would 
Euston never come ? 

And at last something in his brain yielded, and 
he sank back, dazed, half-stupid, his collar above 
his ears, his head swinging helplessly to and fro, 
not caring for anything, not thinking of anything, 
not knowing even that he had reached his destina- 


102 


THE SILVER KING 


tion until the cabman, descending, took him by the 
coat and shook him, thinking him drunk. 

‘'Drunk ?” Yes, he had been drunk; and what 
had come after the drink? Why, murder! He 
almost shrieked it aloud as the awakening made 
him realise that frightful fact, and, starting up, 
he stumbled from the cab. “Murder !'’ He was 
a murderer and it was bright morning, and men 
were looking at him! 

And then the sight of the trains, the noise of the 
whistles and the engines, brought back his senses, 
giving him courage again. There was escape 
before him in those throbbing engines, there was 
salvation there — there was hope, if he played the 
man; and he would play the man, for Nelly’s sake. 

He had plenty of time for the train. But oh, the 
horror of it! Plenty of time in which to think, to 
torture himself with memory and apprehension; 
time in which he would be doing nothing to 
further his escape, but could only sit and wait. As 
long as he had been in the cab he had felt that he 
was at any rate not standing still, not caged and 
unable to move. In agony of mind he cursed the 
luck that had brought him here too soon, to wait — 
to wait for he knew not what. If only he had had 
no time to spare! If he could have leapt with a 
mad rush from the cab to the train as it was 
steaming out! This would have spared him this 
impotent waiting, this intolerable suspense. 


THE SILVER KING 103 


It was more than he could bear. He groaned 
aloud, then he realised with a shock that he might 
betray himself by a breakdown. Nobody must 
notice him; he must not attract attention. Calm! 
He must be calm, for his own, for Nelly’s sake! 

Once more with a colossal effort .he forced himself 
back to calmness, and began as a last resource to 
watch the hurrying bustle around him. Near him 
stood an exceptionally dignified inspector, the very 
embodiment of the great company whose interests 
he served. Up to this stately personage rolled 
amiably a somewhat over-convivial passenger, 
in whom revelry had engendered a misplaced 
facetiousness. 

‘‘Excuse me, sir,” said the convivial one, “but 
I want — I want — ask you — plain question.” 

“What?” replied the stately personage frostily. 

“Well, it’s like this,” said the convivial one, 
with a slight lurch to starboard ; “I’ve got a third- 
class ticket for Glasgow, and what I want to know 
— old — old boy — is — does it include refreshments 
on the road?” 

The stately inspector made no answer to this 
query, but viewed his interrogator with immeasur- 
able contempt. 

“All right,” said the convivial one, dropping his 
hat, retrieving it with difficulty, and trying to dust 
it on the inspector’s sleeve. “All right, old boy; 
no offence taken or given. Simply a civil question 


104 


THE SILVER KING 


wanting a civil answer; but there’s no manners 
nowadays — ^none.” 

He sat down on a milk can, gloomily pondering 
on the growth of incivility. 

An elegant and fashionable lady now came for- 
ward, and the stately personage thawed perceptibly. 

“Can I find you a carriage. Madam?” he 
inquired in accents of honey. 

“Yes; Manchester, first class,” answered the 
lady. 

*'Allow me to take your bag and umbrella,” 
purred the stately one. ^'Thank you; this 
way.” 

They went off, viewed satirically by the con- 
vivial one, still perched precariously on his 
milk can. 

In a moment the inspector returned, vainly 
endeavouring to look as though he had not 
received a shilling. 

“I say, old — old boy!” cried the convivial 
passenger, “will you kindly conduct me to a third- 
class smoking carriage.” 

“Third-class smoking at the end of the train,” 
said the inspector in icy tones. 

“Then,” said the convivial one, “kindly take 
my bag and umbrella, conduct me to my carriage 
— and open the door for me.” 

But the inspector could stand no more. He 
stalked away, stately, but vanquished. 


THE SILVER KING 


105 


This trivial comedy, foolish as it was, probably 
saved Denver’s reason. It had held him occupied 
for several minutes ; he had even smiled at the tipsy 
passenger’s efforts at wit. The time was mercifully 
going on ; in a few minutes the train would be due 
to go. 

A newspaper boy came dashing through the 
door, noisy and urgent like his kind — the human 
sparrows of London. 

‘Taper!” he cried; “paper!” Then to Denver: 
“Paper, sir?” 

“No!” said Denver. 

“^Derby winner, sir! Paper! Murder in Hatton 
Garden last night, sir. Paper!” 

Denver started violently. It all came back to 
him with a blinding, searing rush. 

“Give me a paper,” he cried hoarsely to the boy, 
“anything will do.” 

He thrust a shilling into the astonished boy’s 
hand, and moved aside. 

Cool ! He must be cool ! A few moments more. 
For Nelly’s sake. Cool! He had almost smiled 
as his fingers closed upon the flimsy sheet, but, 
my God! he could not stand much more. Fate 
must not overtry him. . . . 

A last effort, and he was in his carriage, and 
alone. And now the train was moving, creeping 
past the station lamps ; there they went — one, two, 
three; now they were increasing speed, going 


106 


THE SILVER KING 


faster — faster; flying, and he was out in the 
country, he was free! 

Three minutes after the northern express had 
left Euston, a cab drove rapidly up to the station 
entrance, and two men leaped out. 

One, the first to descend, was a quiet, unobtrusive 
looking individual, with a determined mouth and 
quick, searching eyes. Leaving his companion 
to settle with the cabman, he strode swiftly up to 
the station inspector, who stood talking to a porter, 
his bell still in his hand. 

‘'Has the express gone?” he asked. 

The inspector nodded. “Yes; three minutes 
ago.” 

Sam Baxter bit viciously on the stump of the 
extinct cigar he carried between his lips. “Just 
my luck again!” he said, more to himself than to 
the inspector. “I missed the Spider last night, 
and now this man’s missed me.” And he took a 
step or two up and down the platform, in thought. 

“Did you happen to notice a gentleman in a 
brown overcoat, brown hat, with a bag?” he asked, 
returning to the inspector. 

“Rather dark, with a small beard and 
moustache ?” 

Baxter nodded. “Yes.” 

The inspector glanced in the direction taken by 
Wilfred Denver’s train. 


THE SILVER KING 


107 


“The very man,” he said. “Came through this 
door about three minutes ago — he caught the 
express. He’s got a first-class ticket for Liverpool. 
He’s in the front carriage of the train.” 

“Where does the train stop — the first place?” 

“Rugby — nine-thirty-five.’ ’ 

Baxter thanked the man, and made his way 
rapidly to the telegraph-office. There he dis- 
patched the following wire: 

“From Sam Baxter, Scotland Yard. To Police 
Station, Rugby. Meet nine-thirty-five down 
express, detain Wilfred Denver, front carriage of 
the train — about thirty, small dark beard and mous- 
tache, brown hat, brown overcoat. Wanted for 
murder.” 

Then he returned to the platform to search for 
his man. “That’ll do it,” he decided. “We’ll 
nab him at Rugby. Oh, yes, we’ll nab him at 
Rugby !” 


CHAPTER XII 

He had escaped! That was Wilfred Denver’s 
one thought as the train bore him away from Lon- 
don out into the open country, away from that 
frightful nightmare of drink and blood and pur- 
suit, and that fear-compelling knocking at the door. 
Ah, the relief of that swift motion, bearing him at 
every second farther away from his enemies; the 
sweetness of the country air borne in through the 
open windows, the peace of being alive! It was 
bright morning. The summer hay was being cut in 
the fields ; men, women, and children were working 
there around him, and, though he saw them, loving 
them for the fresh, clean thoughts they brought 
him, they could not see him, could not suspect, 
could not recognise him for the hunted wretch that 
he was, and turn from their work and follow him, 
and hound him down. 

He feverishly started to undress, tearing off tie 
and collar and shirt. Then he flung open the bag 
which old Jaikes had given him, tumbled out the 
sailor’s clothes, and put them on in place of his 
own. A hasty glance at the mirror revealed him 
to himself indeed transformed — ah, all but the face. 

108 


/ 


THE SILVER KING 


109 


He looked round helplessly; then his eye fell on a 
pair of scissors which had fallen from the bag with 
the clothes. So Jaikes had forgotten nothing, 
faithful soul ! He stood before the mirror, and not 
many more minutes had gone when a roughly 
shorn visage looked back at him out of the glass. 
It was a poor job, but at least there was little like- 
ness to the Wilfred Denver of old in the figure 
before him. He sank down with a sigh of relief. 

And then for a long while, it seemed to him 
ages, he lay there extended full length upon the 
carriage seat, drinking in all that freedom and 
sunshine and fresh greenness of the country he 
was speeding through, and revelling, like a man 
who has just passed through an operation, in the 
fact of being only alive once more and master of 
his actions. 

And then, as the train sped on and he began to 
pass stations and towns once more, fear commenced 
to return to him and grip his heart. He had 
escaped his pursuers, it was true; he was free — 
but how long? So long as the train continued to 
move. At the back of those men were all the 
resources of the law. He had eluded them, and 
what if they had traced him to the station, to the 
train, to his very carriage? What use then would 
his disguise be to him? They had the telegraph, 
that winged detective, faster than any engine, and 
myrmidons in every town. Suppose they had 


110 


THE SILVER KING 


wired to have him stopped! Why, that would 
simply mean that he was caught like a rat in a trap 
there, in that compartment he had thought so safe, 
that he was being carried on helplessly merely 
from one danger to another as great, that at the 
first stopping-place the door would open, fierce 
eyes would penetrate his masquerade, rough hands 
would seize his collar, and the awful words, 
“Wilfred Denver, you are wanted for the murder 
of Geoffrey Ware!” would burst upon his ear. . . . 
My God: and he was the murderer of Geoffrey 
Ware! 

And now the speed of the train, that had seemed 
so glorious to him at first, became to him a thing of 
dread. It had been rushing on, eating up the 
miles ceaselessly, for how long? Where had they 
told him the first stopping-place was? Rugby! 
He must be nearing that already, and at Rugby 
they were waiting for him. He was sure of it 
now. He felt in his heart that the telegram had 
been sent; he seemed to see the police setting out 
for the station, surrounding the platform, waiting 
silently, inexorably. . . . 

And then the very wheels began to cry out to 
him to fly while there was yet time, to fling him- 
self from the carriage, to take any risk rather than 
ride tamely to a dog’s death like that — and there 
came a whistle from the engine, and the speed 
began to slacken. 


THE SILVER KING 


111 


He sprang to his feet in an agony of fear. 
They were drawing near a station, then. Was it 
Rugby ? 

His white face peered from the window. They 
were passing through a cutting now, up a steep 
incline. Before him lay the open country. At 
the end of the cutting — Rugby, for all he knew, 
and capture. Opening the carriage door, clinging 
on to the strap, he looked down at the flashing 
metals. Not a soul appeared to observe him.' 
Now was his chance, or never. Should he leap 
out? He must — better a short, quick death than 
that other. He shuddered and glanced back, then 
clenched his teeth and leaped. 

More nightmare, more dreams haunted by 
Geoffrey Ware’s blood-stained and accusing 
features, and Wilfred Denver recovered conscious- 
ness to find himself lying shaken, bruised, but safe, 
by the side of the railway line. The train from 
which he had jumped had long since vanished out 
of sight, and his fearful leap had evidently passed 
unnoticed. He was hurt, but he was alive and 
able to walk. There was still hope ; and, rising to 
his feet, after a quick glance round him, he limped 
away. 

For some hours his one thought was to fly from 
the sight of man. He kept away from houses and 
villages, taking footpaths rather than high roads. 


112 


THE SILVER KING 


diving here and there into -woods or coppices, 
burying himself deeper and deeper into the rural 
solitude that seemed to promise him safety. But 
towards evening, when hunger and thirst com- 
menced to weaken him, and his leg, badly sprained 
by his fall, threatened to fail him, he cast longing 
eyes at the little rustic inns here and there, at the 
creeper-covered cottages and the thatched roofs, 
and involuntarily dropped into the more frequented 
ways.^ 

“I must risk it,’^ he thought at last, looking up 
at the deeply recessed porch of a pretty ale-house 
he had reached almost fainting and hardly con- 
scious of what he did. “I can’t drag a step 
farther. Let them come and take me if they will — 
I must rest.” 

There was a seat at one side of the porch, and 
hardly able to reach it, he staggered to it and sank 
down fainting. Confused murmurs sang in his 
ears, all other things became a blank. 

Slowly, very slowly, the murmurs began to take 
more definite form, to grow like human voices, to 
sound like articulate words. But it did not seem 
worth the effort to grasp their meaning. 

What was that ? Something, surely, that he had 
heard before, something about a ‘"garden.” He 
sat up and forced himself to listen. Then suddenly 
he sprang to his feet — for it was his own name 
which reached his ear. 


THE SILVER KING 


113 


“Wilfred Denver.” Yes, it was no fancy; he 
had actually heard the words. Some men were on 
the other side of the porch, talking. 

Cautiously he peered round and looked at them. 
There were three men, one of whom was poring 
over a newspaper, reading something aloud, while 
the other two, one on each side, leant eagerly 
across his shoulders. 

Denver, holding his breath, stared at them hard. 
The two, from the cut of their clothes, seemed to 
belong to the farmer class; the man in the middle, 
to judge by his droning intonation and the prim 
precision of his attire, might possibly be the parish 
clerk. All three looked harmless enough, and 
yet 

His name! They were reading the paper! Did 
the whole world, then, ring with his crime? And 
here, even here, in this peaceful spot, was he not 
safe? Shivering violently, he drew back again, 
and sinking into his seat crouched up against the 
farther side of the porch. He fixed his hunted gaze 
upon the distant fields that he was too weak to 
reach, and waited while one of the farmers spoke. 

“Ah, I like a good murder. Read it out, Mr. 
Parkyns. Let’s hear all about it.” 

The droning voice, harsh, unmusical, yet, from 
custom, perhaps, with a queer touch of impressive- 
ness in it, went on : 

“ ‘A downward career. Last night a shocking 


114 


THE SILVER KING 


murder was committed at 114 Hatton Garden. 
The victim was a young engineer named Geoffrey 
Ware, who occupied the first and second floors 
of the house in question. It appears that a few 
minutes before eleven last night, James Leaker, the 
porter and housekeeper of the premises, went into 
Mr. Ware’s room, and found there an acquaintance 
of the deceased, by name Wilfred Denver, a young 
man who is understood to be well connected, 
although he has lately been leading a life of 
gambling and dissipation, and had returned this 
very evening from the Derby in a state of drunken 
frenzy ’ ” 

Oh, it was too much! Maddened by the voice, 
by this callous rehearsal of all his tortures, Denver 
sprang to his feet, calling loudly, ‘Waiter! 
Waiter!” He must find some relief, he felt, or 
in another moment he would betray himself. 

The reader upon whose recital he had broken in 
thus unceremoniously looked up severely over the 
glasses which perched upon the bridge of his nose. 

“Really, sir, I cannot read,” he said, “if you 
interrupt.” 

Denver turned on him furiously. “Who the 
devil asked you to read? Keep your tongue still, 
can’t you?” he cried. 

Indignation is hardly the word to describe the 
look on the parish clerk’s face as he opened his 
mouth to reply. Fortunately, at this instant a 


THE SILVER KING 


115 


pretty, rosy-cheeked girl appeared in the doorway. 
‘‘Did you call, sir?” she asked. 

Denver nodded, still glaring at the astonished 
men. “Yes, something to eat,” he said more 
quietly; “and lay it in a private room.” 

Then, as though realising the three onlookers’ 
not unnatural amazement at his behaviour, he 
drew nearer to them. 

“Are you talking about the Hatton Garden — 
murder?” he asked, trying to steady his voice. 

“Yes, yes, we are,” replied Mr Parkyns grimly, 
looking at him over his spectacles with an un- 
modified face. 

“Ah,” replied Denver, “I know Hatton Garden 
very well. Have they discovered anything fresh?” 

“No,” said one of the farmers. “This be only 
the morning paper. The evening one hasn’t come 
in yet.” 

Not come in yet! What would be in it when it 
did, Denver wondered. How much would he not 
give to know ! But how these men were staring at 
him. He returned their looks impatiently. 

“Stranger in these parts, mate?” asked the 
third one, who had not spoken yet — a round-faced, 
small-featured man, whose very appearance irri- 
tated him. 

“Yes — no — I know them a little.” 

“Sailor, eh?” 

“Yes.” 


116 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Where might you be making for?” 

“I’m going to join my ship.” 

“And where might that be, mate?” pursued the 
farmer, unabashed by the briefness of Denver’s 
replies. 

“She’s at — at ” but his patience was 

exhausted, his nerves were on edge, his very brain 
seemed to be going. In another moment he felt 
that he should betray himself, shriek out the truth. 
He could have struck the round, curious face 
turned up to him. “What the devil’s that got to 
do with you?” 

The girl coming out again as he spoke, “Show 
me into a private room, where these fools can’t 
pester me,” he commanded, and followed her into 
the house, leaving three speechless villagers 
behind him. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Ushered into the stufY little sitting-room of the 
Chequers Inn, Denver wiped the perspiration from 
his forehead and began to pace the floor restlessly, 
dragging his wounded leg. He hardly felt the 
pain which the limb caused him; or, if he felt it, it 
came almost as a relief, distracting his mind a while 
from the torturing anxiety that besieged it. Had 
he made a fatal slip just now, he wondered, when 
he lost. his temper with those men outside? Had 
they noticed his haggard looks, his unnatural tones, 
all the evidences of the frightful strain he was 
undergoing? Did they suspect him, and what 
were they doing now, out there? If only he knew 
— and oh, if he could only rest ! 

A voice at his elbow caused him to start vio- 
lently. The little waiting-maid of the “Chequers” 
was standing by his side, looking up at him 
curiously, pityingly. 

“You seem tired out,” she said. 

Denver frowned. Then, seeing that the rosy 
lips were smiling, the brown eyes kind, he made an 
effort to reply to her. 

“Yes, my girl, I am,” he said, and uncon- 
sciously he looked down at his aching foot. 

117 


118 


THE SILVER KING 


The maid’s eyes followed his glance. 

“Oh, whatever’s the matter with your foot?” 
she asked. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Denver, curs- 
ing himself again inwardly because he must needs 
give himself away. 

Susie opened her round eyes wide. “Oh, that’s 
a fib. Why, you’re quite lame!” she cried. 

“No, no; I’ve walked a good bit to-day,” 
Denver returned, trying to control his lips, which 
would tremble a little in spite of himself, “and 
I’m dead beat.” 

The little maid laid a hand gently on his sleeve, 
consolingly. “Never mind; you’ll be better to- 
morrow.” 

“Yes, I’ll be better to-morrow.” He looked 
quickly away, touched by the sympathy of this little 
creature, and almost afraid of breaking down. 

“Bring me some water, will you?” he said, 
making the first excuse he ccnild think of to escape 
from her scrutiny. 

“Yes. Anything else ?” 

“You get the London evening papers here?” 

“Yes. One is generally here about this time.” 

“Then let me h^ve it the minute it comes.” 

The moment he had spoken the words he would 
have withdrawn them, yet he felt he would give 
worlds to see what the paper might contain. 


THE SILVER KING 


119 


Yes, he must know, let them suspect what they 
would. 

‘‘Ah, don't look at me, there’s a good girl,” he 
implored, as Susie still stood watching him with 
a compassionate gaze. “Please go out, shut the 
door, and don’t let me be disturbed.” 

She turned and went. As the door closed behind 
her, he sank into a chair, resting his weary head 
upon his crossed arms. 

“How long can I bear this?” he wondered. 
“What time is it now?” His eyes sought the 
clock. About a quarter past eight. “A quarter 
past eight! And yesterday, at this time, I was 
innocent. Yesterday, at this time, he was alive, 
and I could laugh and play the fool. And now 
. . . O God, put back Thy universe, and give me 
yesterday I” 

“Too late! Too late!” The words came out 
in an agonised whisper between his clenched teeth. 
He turned his bloodshot eyes despairingly up- 
wards. “Ah, Heaven,” 'he gasped, “work out 
some way of escape for me — not for my own sake, 
not to shield me from the just consequences of my 
crime, but for the sake of Nelly and my children, 
who have done no wrong. Spare me till I have 
made atonement!” 

He rose hurriedly as a knock sounded on the 
door, and Susie re-entered the room, carrying a tray. 

“Can I lay the cloth?” she asked. 


120 


THE SILVER KING 


He nodded and dragged himself to the window, 
staring out into the dark. The maid began to make 
preparations for his meal, watching him with eyes 
in which mingled admiration for his tall, handsome 
figure and wonder at his silence and appearance of 
extreme weariness. 

As he did not break the silence, she summoned 
up courage at last to speak to him again. 

‘'Do you know,” she said, “you aren’t a bit 
like a sailor?” 

Denver wheeled round. 

“Why not? What makes you think that?” he 
asked quickly, almost harshly. 

Susie laughed, blushing a little. “Sailors are 
always hearty and jolly, and . . . want to kiss 
me,” she said. Then, a little fearful of her bold- 
ness, she went on hastily : “I know your foot hurts 
you. I wish you’d let John, the ostler, see to it. 
He’s as good as a doctor for sprains, and he’ll tell 
you what to do.” 

Denver shook his head. “No, no; let me alone, 
that’s all I want,” he said, with an effort to speak 
gently; “and don’t forget the evening paper.” 

“I can’t eat,” he thought, left by himself again, 
“and yet I must. I must put some strength into 
myself. I can’t last out another day like this.” 

He had seated himself at the table, and was about 
to force himself to swallow some of the food Susie 
had placed for him, when suddenly he noticed that 


THE SILVER KING 


m 


the girl had left the door open behind her. He 
rose, and limping towards it, was about to close it, 
when a voice struck on his ear, causing him to stop 
suddenly. It was the voice of the man whom he 
had interrupted in his reading outside in the porch. 
*'1 never heard sentence of death passed but once,'* 
it was saying, “and that was when I was a boy. 
But I shall never forget it.” 

“My God!” Denver stood as if turned to 
stone, with his hands outstretched in the act of 
closing the door, while the voice of Parkyns went 
on, harsh, unmusical, droning, yet with a solemnity 
in its depths that seemed to the listening man to 
raise the hair upon his head and turn all his blood 
to ice. 

''It was passed upon James Beecroft, the 
Aylesbury murderer, and the jury had been two 
hours deliberating, and it was late at night, and the 
court was lighted with candles in them days. And 
one of the candles was burnt down to the socket, 
and kept on drip, drip, drip on my shoulder; and 
I couldn’t stir, for we was packed as tight as 
herrings in a barrel; and the jury came out, and 
everybody was as quiet as death; and the foreman 
of the jury gave in the verdict, and that candle went 
out the very moment as he said 'Guilty.’ And 
the man’s wife was in court, and she screamed out 
to the judge to save her husband, and they had to 
drag her out of court, and she was carried out. 


122 


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shrieking like a mad thing. And the judge was 
sobbing like a baby, and when the court had got 
quiet again, the judge took out the Black Cap ” 

With a wild cry Denver clutched the door and 
slammed it to. Great God ! he could bear no more. 
Let it end, let it end ! 

He looked up, dazed, after how long he knew 
not, to see Susie standing at his side again. 

*‘The paper, sir,” she said, and Denver, taking 
it from her mechanically, watched her leave the 
room, like a man in a dream. ‘‘The paper?” 
Then realising what it was, he turned over the 
pages, searching furiously. 

He could see nothing of the Hatton Garden 
murder. The whole front page was filled with the 
account of a terrible railway accident. There was 
nothing of what he wanted to see. Nothing but 
lists of dead, wounded, missing. The seven-thirty- 

five express from Euston had Why, that was 

the train he had travelled in! Breathlessly he 
scanned the sheet. “Terrible calamity to an 
express train . . . ascending an incline . . . the 
seven-thirty-five express from Euston came into 
collision with some detached wagons of a goods 
train descending the incline on the same line of 
rails . . . one of the wagons was loaded with 
petroleum ... the barrels burst with the shock, 
the vapour of the oil came in contact with the 
engine fire, and in a moment the front part of the 


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123 


train was wrapped in fierce and unextinguishable 
flames. The three front carriages, with all their 
occupants, were burning for upwards of an hour, 
and were unapproachable on account of the intense 
heat. Nothing was left of them but cinders. 
Amongst the ill-fated passengers was Wilfred 
Denver, who committed the murder in Hatton 
Garden last night, and who has thus paid the last 
penalty of his crime in the very act of flying from 
justice.'^ 

Wilfred Denver dead! He started to his feet, 
looking wildly around him, unwilling to believe his 
eyes, unable for a moment to realise all that this 
meant to him. For a time he remained motionless, 
dazed ; then, as he gazed down at the paper, reading 
the words again and again, the truth began to force 
itself upon him, and, sinking into his chair, he 
bowed his head on his hands and burst into a 
passion of tears. 

Dead! Then God had heard his prayer and 
given him his life. He would take it, take it, to 
give it back to God. Nelly? She would see the 
news and think him dead, too. It was better so, 
better than that she should be tied to a murderer! 

*‘Ah, my darling, the love of my life!’' he 
whispered. “I have done you harm enough. 
Now I will set you free." 

He quickly rang the bell for Susie, who 


124 


THE SILVER KING 


hurried in, startled at the sudden change in 
his manner. 

‘‘How far is it to the nearest station?’' he 
asked. 

“A mile, sir.” 

“Is there a late train down to Bristol?” 

“Yes, sir; the down night mail, in about an 
hour.” 

“Order me a horse and trap to meet it at once, 
then,” said Denver quickly. 

“Thank God,” he thought, as the maid hurried 
off. “I shall reach Bristol to-night; to-morrow I 
shall leave England. Wilfred Denver is dead. 
To-morrow 7 begin a new life!” 


PART II 


CHAPTER XIV 

Time rolls on, and three and a half eventful 
years have elapsed before we again meet the char- 
acters who have played their part thus far. 

In these years Captain Skinner, the Spider, 
the gentleman burglar, has prospered amazingly. 
No suspicion of any connection with crime has ever 
fallen on him, least of all any suspicion of his hand 
in the now forgotten Hatton Garden murder. 

Well known in the best society as the delightfully 
amusing Captain Skinner, he has frequented the 
houses of the rich as a welcome guest ; thus gaining 
ideas as to their contents, which have served him 
to good purpose when in his second role of the 
Spider he led his gang of desperadoes to one 
of those marvellously adroit burglaries which had 
raised such consternation throughout the country. 

He was probably the first of his kind: the first 
who combined the social position and education of 
a gentleman with the practice of the burglar. 
Many have imitated him ; but to the Spider 
belongs the glory, such as it is, of having origi- 
nated a new branch of crime. 

125 


UG 


THE SILVER KING 


And as a profession the Captain undeniably- 
found it very paying. As leader of the gang he 
claimed the lion’s share of the booty; and though 
his confederates tried sometimes to dispute his claim 
his iron will imposed itself in the end on their 
untutored minds, and they obeyed. 

And what nice things the mansions of his great 
friends held! And how much better they were 
employed in keeping Captain Skinner than in the 
useless adorning of those who could so well do 
without them. Pearl necklaces came in most agree- 
ably: dispersed and sold quickly, there was no 
risk of identification. The same with diamonds, 
rubies, emeralds, and so forth. Gold plate, too, 
was well worth attention, and melted down into 
stuff of a good fat value. Silver the Captain 
spumed except in very unusual circumstances ; and 
even then he only took it as a favour to the owner, 
so to speak. He considered himself aggrieved at 
being encumbered with it. 

Thus Captain Herbert Skinner throve. As an 
outward and visible sign of his prosperity, and also 
to convey an air of undoubted solidity to his exist- 
ence, he had taken by now a fine villa at Bromley 
in Kent, where he dwelt at his ease when not 
professionally occupied elsewhere, entertaining his 
admiring neighbours with brilliantly imagined 
accounts of his immensely valuable estates 
abroad. 


THE SILVER KING 


in 


Also he had married a very charming girl, Olive 
Menzies, who had fallen in love with the Captain’s 
debonair ways. After marriage had come with 
the force of a deathblow the knowledge of her 
husband’s ‘‘profession.” It had turned her life 
from Heaven to a hell of misery and apprehension. 
Yet, womanlike, she never wavered in her allegi- 
ance to the man who had so misled her. She even 
loved him still. 

But while things have gone thus with the 
Spider, how has it fared with Nelly Denver, his 
victim’s supposed widow? 

After her husband’s flight and reported death in 
the railway accident, everything in her home had 
gone, partly to satisfy the claims of the many 
creditors, who descended on her like a swarm of 
vultures. She had been turned out into the world, 
penniless, hopeless, branded with the stigma of her 
husband’s crime. 

The widow of the Hatton Garden murderer! 
Thus people pointed her out to one another. 
Sometimes she actually heard the cruel words and 
comments, and it was more than even her brave 
heart could bear. 

Accompanied by her children and the faithful 
Jaikes, who utterly refused to leave her, she fled 
away to another part of London, where she was not 
known, and began to try to earn a living. 

For a time she managed to get some teaching. 


128 


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poorly paid, yet sufficient; then in a tragic moment 
rumour betrayed her: she was given notice by an 
indignant employer, and fled from the neighbour- 
hood. 

Then things got worse and worse; teaching 
failed; she sang in the streets, but the scanty 
coppers that came to her were all insufficient; the 
strain, too, was more than she could bear, and she 
fell ill herself. 

When she at last recovered she had nothing she 
could do, nothing she could sell — excepting herself. 
And one cold night in the streets, with no money in 
the world, and no food, with her children at home 
crying for bread, she had all but taken that fatal 
downward step. 

But something, some beneficent, unseen force 
had saved her from this; again she had fled from 
the scene of temptation and was now under an 
assumed name living (such is the irony of fate) in a 
miserable, tumbledown cottage in Bromley, the 
property of that great society light, the owner of 
those splendid estates abroad — Captain Skinner. 

Thus then were things one winter’s day three and 
a half years after Wilfred Denver’s disappearance. 
From the window of the comfortably well-furnished 
morning-room at “The Firs,” Bromley, the out- 
side world looked very uninviting. The front lawn 
was white, the trees were white in the roadway, 
and the whole landscape beyond was of the same 


THE SILVER KING 


129 


implacable white. The shimmer from the fresh- 
fallen snow seemed to pain the eyeballs, the voice 
of the wind was chill, and every now and then 
flakes drifted up against the window-panes. But 
within a cheerful fire blazed and spread its warmth 
over the room. In front of it sat Captain Herbert 
Skinner, in a capacious armchair, reading a novel 
and toasting his feet luxuriously on the fender; at 
his side a small table with a box of cigarettes upon 
it, from which he paused for a moment to select 
one. 

Time had not altered Skinner since that day, more 
than three years ago, when his path and Wilfred 
Denver’s crossed, to the ruin of the latter. The 
grey hairs seemed no more numerous on the 
temples, the shoulders were as straight. Perhaps 
a few tiny creases at the corners of the eyes had 
become somewhat more marked, but otherwise there 
was nothing to show that the man had known an 
hour’s trouble or care since he dropped from the 
window in Geoffrey Ware’s room and left two 
victims behind him. Well at ease in his luxurious 
surroundings, he seemed to ignore completely the 
rigour of the day outside. 

In a chair by the window of the room sat a young 
woman, not much more than a girl, moodily gazing 
out upon the white world before her. Dark in a 
rather Italian style, with clear-cut features, she had 
a very attractive face, which a certain fretfulness of 


130 


THE SILVER KING 


expression failed to mar. Experience of sorrow, 
discontent, were written in her eyes and mouth, 
but both eyes and mouth were charming. 

After watching for a few minutes the falling 
snowflakes, the young woman sighed and turned 
her head towards the fireplace. 

‘"Herbert,” she said, “you don’t really mean to 
turn that poor woman and her children out of 
that wretched cottage that used to belong to the 
gardener ?” 

“Yes, I do,” Skinner answered, not looking 
round, but stretching nearer to the fire those long 
legs which had gained for him among the less 
respectful of his associates the sobriquet of the 
Spider. 

“Oh, Herbert, why ?” 

“They are starving,” returned Skinner irritably. 
“One of the children is dying, and I object to 
people starving and dying upon my property.” 

“But what will they do? Where can they 
go?” 

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“There’s a nice, comfortable workhouse about 
two miles off,” he sneered. 

The girl rose from her chair and came nearer 
the fire. 

“Surely, Herbert ” she began. 

“Oh, don’t argue, Olive,” Skinner said pet- 
tishly, looking at her for the first time. “The 


THE SILVER KING 


131 


woman can’t pay her way, and therefore she 
must go.” 

“But it surely isn’t her fault she is poor.” 

“Fault! Skinner put up a hand to adjust his 
eyeglass. “It’s no fault in England to be poor. 
It’s a crime. That’s the reason why I am rich.” 
And his lips curled into a cold smile. 

“Rich ?” cried Olive, with a shudder. “Oh, 
when I think how our money is got, I grudge the 
poorest labourer’s wife her crust of bread and her 
drink of water.” 

Skinner closed his novel, set it down on the table, 
and put his finger-tips together. He shook his 
head in mock reproach. 

“That’s foolish. My dear Olive, all living 
creatures prey upon one another. The duck 
gobbles up the worm, the man gobbles up the duck, 
and then the worm gobbles up the man again. It’s 
the great law of nature. My profession is just as 
good as any other . . . till I’m found out.” 

His philosophy stung the girl. Her face flushed 
and she retorted fiercely: 

“When you talk like that I hate you, I hate you ! 
Your profession, indeed! Burglary and . . . 
murder !” 

Although she dropped her voice on the last word, 
Skinner sprang up at once as he caught it. He 
seized her arm roughly. 

“If you remind me of that accursed affair again. 


132 


THE SILVER KING 


ril . . . ril ” but he did not finish. He 

loosed her arm again and sank back into the arm- 
chair. 

‘There, don’t be a fool, Olive,” he added in a 
dull, low tone. “Don’t do it again, there’s a good 
girl.” 

Olive rubbed her arm where his fingers had 
closed upon it so violently, looking at him with a 
frightened glance. She too dropped her voice. 

“You’re not quite deaf to the voice of conscience, 
it seems,” she said. 

“I wish to goodness I could be deaf to your voice 
sometimes.” 

She ignored the sneer and continued to look at 
him timidly. “Herbert,” she asked, “can’t you 
make some reparation, can’t you do something to 
wipe the stain off that man’s memory ?” 

“No, I can’t,” he cried. “Shut up! What a 
fool I was to tell you about it !” 

“Do you think I would have let you tell me if I 
had guessed what your secret was? I’ve not had 
one peaceful moment since the day I knew it.” 

She was on the verge of tears, and Skinner stood 
up with an angry frown. “What’s more,” he 
said furiously, “you haven’t let me have one, 
either. Now, for Heaven’s sake, Olive, don’t look 
like that, or you’ll be old and ugly in no time. 
Let’s forget the cursed thing.” 

Olive made no reply. Nor indeed had she a 


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133 


chance, for there was a knock at the door and a 
housemaid entered. 

Skinner turned to her. 

“Have they come? Show them in here.” 

Olive would have followed the maid out of the 
room, but her husband laid a detaining hand 
upon her. 

“You’d better stay, Olive,” he said. “One 
must be polite to one’s business acquaintances,” he 
added with a grim smile. 

The girl acquiesced silently and sat down, while 
heavy footsteps were heard coming along the 
passage. 

“Mr. Coombe, Mr. Cripps,” announced the maid. 

Time had altered Skinner’s associates as little, 
to outward view, as the Captain himself. Old 
Coombe looked as unctuously genial as ever, the 
black-browed Cripps as much like a human bulldog 
as before. 

The elder man led the way and advanced towards 
his host with a beaming face. “My dear boy!’^ 
he exclaimed, “I am glad to see you.” He 
became aware of Olive’s presence as he spoke and 
turned to her direction with a smile no doubt 
intended to be ingratiating. “How do, ma’am?” 
he said. 

Olive glanced first at the fat and not over-clean 
hand held out to her, and then at her husband. 
In response to the command which his eyes tele- 


134 


THE SILVER KING 


graphed she reluctantly touched Mr. Coombe’s 
hand with her own and murmured an inaudible re- 
ply, which the old man received with a little jerk of 
his head and another smile. 

As for Cripps, he had lurched into the room much 
in the same style as he would have entered the 
four-ale bar. A dirty hard felt hat remained on his 
head, a short clay pipe between his teeth. He 
favoured Olive with a short stare and a perfunctory 
nod. ‘‘My respects, mum,” he growled. 

“Spider,” he went on, “this is a blazing snug 
crib you’ve got here, and no mistake.” 

Skinner eyed him for a moment. “Yes, I 
suppose it is,” he replied rather acidly. “But I 
wish, Cripps, that you would be a little more careful 
in your selection of adjectives.” 

A puff of ill-smelling smoke issued from the 
locksmith’s mouth. 

“What’s the matter with my adjectives? Them 
as don’t like my company can leave it.” 

“Then there’s no occasion for me to stay,” 
broke in Olive, and with a look of disgust she swept 
towards the door. 

“Not a bit, mum,” Cripps replied cheerfully, 
pulling an armchair towards him, seating himself 
in it, and crossing his legs. “Not a bit, mum,” 
he repeated, with another puff at his pipe and a 
loud sniff. “No offence to you, but I ’ates a parcel 


THE SILVER KING 


135 


of women- folk poking their noses in when they 
ain’t wanted.” 

Skinner opened the door for his wife to pass 
out. Cripps looked at him with a grin, and 
continued : 

‘That’s right! No women-folk around, that’s 
my notion of business. There ain’t no nonsense 
about me” 

“No, nor any superfluous politeness either,” 
said his host. 

“Oh, I ’ates politeness. I ’ates folks as are civil 
and stuck-up.” 

Skinner seemed perversely stirred to greater po- 
liteness by his associate’s remark. “My dear fel- 
low,” he replied with the utmost suavity, “consider 
the dignity of our profession. There is no reason 
why we should not be gentlemen.” 

“Gentlemen! Huh! There’s nothing of the 
gentleman about me !” 

“Sh! Don’t tell us so, or we shall begin to 
believe it by and by.” 

Skinner smiled round at Coombe as he spoke. 

The old man evidently thought it time to cut 
short this discussion on manners for burglars. 
He wagged his white beard seriously as he 
remarked : 

“My dear boys, let us get to business.” 

“Fire away. Father Christmas,” laughed 
Skinner, propping himself against the mantelpiece. 


136 


THE SILVER KING 


Fm all attention. But before we set out for fresh 
woods and pastures new, let us settle up that little 
matter of Lady Blanche's diamonds. Where are 
they now?" 

“Down at my wharf by the river, dear boy, 
along with the other swag." 

“Who looks after that place of yours? You 
can’t leave it unguarded all day. Can’t you keep 
somebody on the premises — somebody whom you 
know ?" 

“Well, it’s locked up safe, and I’ve got no one 
to put in there. You can’t spare one of your 
people, I suppose?" 

“No; I’m very comfortably suited just now," 
Skinner replied. “My coachman has just done 
eighteen months. . . . My cook is a jewel — she’s 
the one that stole Lord Farthinghoe’s silver. I 
always like to encourage enterprise, you know. 
My housemaid was born in Durham jail, and my 
footman I took out of charity when his father went 
to do his fourteen years. In fact there isn’t a soul 
about the place that I cannot trust." 

There was a knock at the door, and the house- 
maid — the young lady from Durham — came in. 

“The Duke of New York’s below, sir," she an- 
nounced. 

“That fellow!" ejaculated her master furiously. 
“How did he get here? Give him a bit of food 
and kick him out of the place." 


THE SILVER KING 


137 


‘‘He says he must see you, sir,’" returned the 
maid. 

Skinner picked a cigarette out of his box with 
an angry frown. 

‘^Send him up,’’ he snapped. 

The order was unnecessary, for the person spoken 
of was already in the room before the housemaid 
could fetch him. She went out, shutting the door 
behind her, leaving the new-comer to face the three 
men. 

Skinner and Cripps looked at him in silence. 
Only Coombe lifted his voice. 

"‘Dear me!” cried the old man. “Why, if it 
isn’t our dear young friend, Mr. ’Enery Corkett!” 

If time had dealt lightly with the Spider and his 
two associates, the case was otherwise with the 
former clerk. There was little resemblance, except 
in the weak mouth and shifty eyes, between the 
youthful roysterer who had made his money on 
Blue Ribbon three years ago and the miserable, 
shivering creature that stood now in the morning- 
room at “The Firs.” The close-cropped hair, the 
two or three days’ growth of beard, the smears of 
dirt round the eyes and mouth gave a sinister ex- 
pression to Corkett’s face, and an ill-fitting, shoddy 
suit, torn here and there, made his gaunt frame 
ludicrous, more like a scarecrow than a man. Fury 
and despair mingled in his voice as he turned on 
Coombe. 


138 


THE SILVER KI]S(G 

‘‘Your friend!’' he almost shrieked. “A pretty 
hole you let your friends into I” 

“My dear boy,” expostulated the other, “what 
was we to do? Why, it might have happened to 
any of us !” 

“That’s all in my eye. Father Christmas,” Cor- 
kett retorted fiercely. “You’re very wide, you 
three, and you meant to let me in. And that Spider 
there. ... Now then, Mr. Spider, can’t you speak 
to an old pal?” 

Skinner had seated himself in his armchair, with 
his back to the group, and was smoking his cigar- 
ette, glaring at the fire through his eyeglass. He 
did not turn his head, but as Corkett came up to 
him he let drop the words : 

“So you’re out again, are you?” 

“Yes,” shouted Corkett, “I’ve just done the 
twelve months you ought to have done.” 

“Very well; don’t brag about it,” Skinner replied 
cuttingly, “or perhaps you’ll get another twelve 
months.” 

“Oh, no, I shan’t. I’m going to turn honest.” 

“Very well,” said Skinner again, vouchsafing 
him a glance through his glass. “It’s always the 
last resource of people who fail as rogues. You 
make an infernally bad rogue, Corkett. I don’t 
know how you will answer in the other line. My 
private opinion is that you will not be a credit to 
either.” 


THE SILVER KING 


139 


'‘Fm not going to be your tool and cat's paw 
any longer. Here you are, living in bang-up style, 
surrounded by every luxury " 

“The fruits of years of honourable industry,” 
interrupted Skinner. 

“While I can't get the price of a glass of bitter.” 

“Try a few bitter reflections,” remarked his tor- 
mentor. 

Corkett squared himself with a pitiful caricature 
of resolution. “No, I shan't ; I shall try honesty, 
I tell you. And mind you. Spider, once I do turn 
honest, I shall turn damned honest, and make it 
jolly hot for all of you.” 

An ugly glint appeared in Skinner’s eye, and 
Coombe got up hurriedly and addressed the shout- 
ing youth in a soothing voice. 

“Come, come; you know what the Spider is. 
You musf brush him the right way of the wool. 
Now we've got a simply splendid plant on just at 
present — haven’t we. Spider? — and you shall stand 
in with us.” 

“No; I'll be damned if he shall!” cried Skinner. 

The old man came up to him and addressed him 
confidentially. “My dear boy,” he whispered, “we 
must keep his mouth shut, or else he’ll go and blab 
about that Hatton Garden affair.” 

The Spider ground his teeth, and then, with an 
effort, addressed himself to the ex-clerk. 

“Corkett!” he said sharply, but in a less con- 


140 


THE SILVER KING 


temptuous tone than before, ‘‘look here, Corkett. 
I’m not to be bullied, but if you behave yourself I 
don’t mind doing something for you.” 

Coombe grinned noiselessly, and laid a caressing 
hand on Corkett’s back. The young man’s expres- 
sion changed, and a look came into it which re- 
called the Corkett of old. 

“All right, I’m fly,” he cried. “Let’s have some 
dinner to start with. I’ve got rats inside of me. 
What time do you dine. Spider?” 

Skinner went across to the bell, and touched it. 

“Seven,” he answered; “but pray don’t wait for 
me.” 

“I won’t! I’ll have some lunch now, and then 
I’ll dine with you by and by.” 

“We always dress for dinner,” remarked the 
other coldly. “Mrs. Skinner makes a point 
of it.” 

“Very sorry. Spider, old man; I’ve left my dress 
togs with my uncle. You’ll have to excuse morning 
dress this time.” 

Skinner looked at the housemaid who had come 
to the door. 

“Some lunch downstairs for this — gentleman,” 
he commanded. 

“And some wine. Spider,” Corkett cried. 

“Some claret for the gentleman.” 

“Claret be blowed!” shouted Corkett. “Let’s 
have some champagne.” 


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141 


‘'Some champagne for the gentleman,” corrected 
Skinner, watching Corkett with an evil look as he 
left the room in the housemaid’s wake. 

Mr. Cripps had appeared wonderfully little 
interested in the conversation hitherto. His blue 
chin had sunk on his dirty red muffler, his eyes 
had closed, and his pipe had ceased to emit its 
fumes of shag. But as Corkett disappeared he sat 
up suddenly. 

“I think ril join the gentleman,” he grunted, 
rising. “IVe had one meal, but mine’s a wonder- 
fully accommodating sort of stummick.” 

“Do,” said Skinner, but with no show of 
warmth; “and you’d better go too, Coombe, and 
look after that young brute. If he gets a spoonful 
of wine into him it will fly to the place where his 
brains ought to be, and he may open his mouth too 
wide.” 

The old man’s mouth spread out in one of his 
noiseless grins. 

“All right, my dear boy,” he agreed; “anything 
for an honest living.” And he followed Cripps’ s 
shambling steps through the door. 


CHAPTER XV 


Captain Herbert Skinner remained standing 
on his hearthrug as his guests left the room, his 
back to the fire, and his eyes fixed on the floor. 
His forehead was heavily corrugated, and a vicious 
expression distorted his mouth. He no longer 
took any comfort from the contrast between his 
warm surroundings and the wintry world beyond. 
Indeed, the outside world seemed to have broken 
rudely in upon him in the last hour. First, Olive 
had idiotically reminded him of that little mishap 
in Hatton Garden years ago; and then that cursed 
Corkett had turned up again with his threats of 
becoming honest and giving him away. He could 
have laughed at the rascal, so cleverly had his 
schemes been carried out elsewhere, had it not been 
for that same infernal mishap — the one blunder of 
his career. 

Was he never to live that Hatton Garden busi- 
ness down? He wished all dead who knew about 
it — not Olive^ — but the gang of them: the oily old 
hypocrite Coombe, the ruffianly, unwashed Cripps, 
and that pitiful and brainless ape whom in derision 
they had christened the Duke of New York. While 
142 


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14)3 


they were about the world there was little use in 
his dreams of saying good-bye to the ‘‘Spider’’ part 
of his existence after one more big coup, and set- 
ting up somewhere safely as a country gentleman 
— respected, a regular church-goer, and an example 
to all the parish ! 

He looked up with an angry face as a knock was 
heard and the door opened. 

“Come in,” said his wife’s voice to someone out- 
side. “Here is my husband. You shall speak to 
him yourself.” 

“What is it now?” said Skinner savagely. 
“Come in and shut the door. What is the 
matter ?” 

“Herbert, this is the poor woman who lives 
in the gardener’s old cottage,” Olive replied 
pleadingly. 

Skinner glanced at his wife’s companion, who 
entered the room with a timid, hesitating step. He 
could not see much of her downcast face, but he 
took in her shabby black clothes and general air 
of distress. Young still, he thought, and has seen 
better days. 

“What do you want?” he said curtly. 

It was a low, sweet voice that answered him, but 
the tones were pitiful and despairing. 

“Mercy, sir; mercy upon a starving woman and 
a dying child.” 

Skinner gave an impatient shrug. 


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lU 


‘‘My good woman/' he said, ‘‘you’ll be much 
better off in the workhouse. You will be provided 
with food, and your child will be attended by a 
doctor.” 

“But he will die! It will kill him to move him 
in this bitter weather. Oh, do have mercy, sir! 
Do have mercy!” 

The man turned away testily. “Now, please 
don’t make a scene. I’ve made up my mind to 
pull down that cottage. It isn’t fit for a dog to 
live in.” 

“Then let me live in it with my children . . . 
only for a few days longer . . . until my child is 
better ... or dead.” 

“Yes, that’s just it,” cut in Skinner. “Your child 
may die, and I don’t wish him to die on my prop- 
erty, a hundred yards from my door. I dislike 
death; it’s a nuisance, and I don’t wish to be re- 
minded of it.” 

The poor woman held out her clasped hands 
towards him. “Ah, think of it! It is the last 
chance for my child. If you turn us out to-day, my 
boy will die.” She stopped with a sob. 

Olive came forward indignantly. “Herbert,” she 
exclaimed, “how can you! Think what you are 
doing!” 

The suppliant turned to Olive. “Oh, thank you 
for that.” she murmured. “Beg him to let me 
stay.” 


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145 


“I have no influence over my husband/^ replied 
Olive, looking at him with a flashing eye and heav- 
ing breast. 

Skinner was beginning to look extremely bored, 
and his foot tapped the floor nervously. ‘‘Have 
the goodness to believe that I mean what I say. 
“Now get up,” he continued, as she fell at his feet. 
“There is no need to kneel to me.” 

“Yes, yes; there is much need,” sobbed the 
woman. “You cannot, you shall not refuse what 
I ask. I am sure you are good and kind at heart. 
You do not really wish my child — ^my brave, beauti- 
ful boy — to die. Ah! I can see you are listening. 
You will have mercy? Yes, yes, you will! I know 
you will !” 

Never had the Spider been in a situation which 
wearied him so much. With a gesture of despair, 
he motioned the woman away. 

“Very well,” he said, “if you don't bother me 
any more, you can stay till your child gets better.” 

He checked her fervent “God bless you!” with 
another wave of his hand. 

“Yes, yes, we know all about that. Now go 
away, and don't make any more fuss. For good- 
ness' sake, Olive, show the woman out.” 

Olive's eyes still flashed, but she stepped to her 
protegee's side and said gently: 

“Will you come this way, Mrs I don't 

know your name.” 


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‘‘My name is — Nelly/^ answered the other, in a 
voice that was barely more than a whisper, and 
moved towards the door. Turning as she went out, 
she cried : “Thank you again and again, sir. You 
have saved my child’s life.” 

Skinner stretched himself wearily as the door 
closed, and was about to help himself to another 
cigarette, when it opened again, and Coombe stood 
before him. The old man’s face was agitated, and 
his milky blue eyes blinked. 

“Well, what’s the matter now?” demanded 
Skinner. 

“That woman!” Coombe stammered. “That 
woman who’s just gone out ” 

“Well, what of her? What’s up with you, 
man? Have you seen a ghost? Speak, can’t 
you!” 

“I knew her again in a moment,” Coombe re- 
plied hoarsely. “That’s Denver’s widow.” 

Skinner started, and dropped his eyeglass. 
“Nonsense! you must be mistaken,” he said. 
“How do you know it is she?” 

“They pointed her out to me at the inquest on 
Ware’s body. I’m not likely to forget her.” 

He gazed curiously at his chief, who stood biting 
his lips, and clenching and unclenching his hands. 
He could not read the Spider’s thoughts, but could 
tell that the revelation which he had just made 
affected him profoundly. 


THE SILVER KING 147 


It was some time before Skinner spoke. 

‘‘Coombe, can you do a job for me?” he asked 
at last. 

‘‘Yes. Whafs the job?” 

“My wife has got a maggot in her brain about 
that Hatton Garden — accident. If she finds out 
that this woman is Denver’s widow, she will make 
my life a perfect hell to me, and the whole busi- 
ness is bound to leak out.” 

“What’s to be done, then?” inquired Coombe. 

“She’s living in that tumbledown cottage of 
mine. You know the one I mean. Well, she can’t 
pay her rent — in fact, she has had notice to quit 
for the last fortnight. What I want you to do is to 
go and get some men and turn her and her belong- 
ings out of my place.” 

The old man’s mouth widened and his head 
nodded. The idea seemed to please him. 

“All right, my dear boy; leave it to me.” 

“It must be done at once,” ordered Skinner. 

One of the pale blue eyes contracted slightly. 
“It’s done,” Mr. Coombe replied. He pulled his 
broad-brimmed felt hat from a capacious pocket, 
and crammed it on his head. There was a ghost of 
a chuckle as he closed the door behind him. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The gardener’s cottage attached to ‘The Firs/’ 
Bromley, certainly was not far from meriting the 
unflattering description applied to it by its land- 
lord — “not fit for a dog to live in/’ It had three 
rooms, it is true; two low-ceilinged, ill-lighted 
apartments on the ground floor, only too well ven- 
tilated by the draughts which blew in from badly 
fitting door and window-pane, and a tiny attic, little 
more than a loft, upstairs. From the living-room 
alone it would have been easy to tell the poverty of 
the inmates of this cottage. A worn square of car- 
pet, a couple of rickety chairs, a plain deal table, 
and an old cupboard with a wedge inserted to keep 
its door shut, were the sole furniture. On the walls 
a hideous paper hung in tatters, relieved only by an 
almanac and two cheap oleographs from some 
Christmas number. The grate revealed nothing 
but a bent poker and a few grey ashes long grown 
cold. A threadbare piece of chintz curtain in the 
window failed to shut out the dreariness of the 
December afternoon, and a broken pane, barely 
covered with a square of brown paper, let in every 
now and then a stream of icy air. 

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149 


On one of the insecure chairs Nelly Denver sat, 
with her head turned towards the half-opened door 
of the inner room, in which lay the sick child, 
fading away for want of proper food. A desperate 
look was in her eyes, the look of one who has 
struggled long and bravely against an ever more 
closely approaching enemy, and sees him at last 
within the very citadel. Her face was wan and 
pinched. The girlish lines of her figure had lost 
their softness and showed painfully sharp through 
the old black dress which she had striven so hard to 
keep decent. Only the mass of bright golden hair 
seemed to recall the Nelly Denver of old, before the 
crash came which left her a widow and her children 
fatherless, with scarcely a penny in the world. 

And now there was not even a penny, nor a 
friend. That bitter thought possessed her mind, as 
she listened to the child’s heavy breathing from the 
inner room. But stay, that was not quite just. 
There was a friend. She looked round with a smile 
as she heard a shuffling step at the cottage door and 
a fumbling hand at the latch, and her eyes softened 
as they rested on the quaint, clumsy old figure that 
entered the room. 

"‘Jaikes,” she murmured gently. 

The old man deposited a small sack on the table 
and be^t his arms vigorously across his chest to 
restore the circulation in his numbed fingers. His 
eye twinkled with a cheerfulness which harmonised 


150 


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strangely with his general appearance. Poverty 
had not robbed him altogether of his portly figure', 
yet there was a looseness about the fit of his clothes, 
of which only the trousers, of much worn and 
spotted broadcloth, any longer suggested the 
butler. The coat obviously was a product of the 
slop-shop, and a grey woollen comforter usurped 
the place which had once been occupied by the 
long-pointed stand-up collar and neat white bow- 
tie. There was still a ruddiness about the cheeks, 
though want of food had long ago left its mark 
upon his withered features. 

Yet there was an unmistakable gleam in his eye 
which could not but pique Nelly’s curiosity. 

‘Well, Jaikes, any success?” she asked. 

“Success, missus! Rather,” was the chuckling 
reply. “Things is looking up. What do you 
think? I’ve been and earned a shilling this after- 
noon.” 

“A shilling, Jaikes?” 

“Yes, a whole shilling, straight off! Earned it 
all in a couple of hours. There it is.” And he 
proudly placed the coin on the table. 

“Oh, Jaikes, isn’t that lucky!” cried Nelly. 
“Why, I was just wondering whether we should 
have anything at all to eat to-night.” 

“Eat! Lor’ bless yer, we’ll have a reg’lar 
Lord Mayor’s banquet.” Jaikes’s head wagged 
joyfully. “But what did Mr. Skinner say about 


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151 


letting us stay on?” he asked, with a shade of ap- 
prehension. 

‘‘At first he was very hard and cruel, and said 
that we must go. But I went down on my knees to 
him, and begged so hard, and wouldn’t take ‘No’ 
. . . until he was obliged to say we might stay on 
until Ned was better.” 

“Bless your sweet, pale face, missus; he must 
have had a heart made of brickbats if he could 
have said ‘No’ to you.” 

His voice was husky, and to hide his emotion he 
took up his sack from the table and went over to 
the grate. 

“So, you see, Jaikes, we haven’t got to turn out 
after all,” said Nelly. “But . . . why, you’ve 
brought some wood and some coals!” 

“Yes,” said Jaikes, now on his knees in the fire- 
place, “you see it gets a bit chilly towards the 
evening, and I thought a fire’d look cheerful.” 

“But where did you get the firing from?” 

“Bagged it off Badgers the baker.” 

“Badgers, the baker! . . . that dreadful, hard- 
hearted man?” 

“Oh, Badgers is all right, once you get the 
right side of him! Though, judging from his 
squint, you’d think he was capable of anything, 
Jaikes replied with a wheezy laugh, turning to look 
up at his mistress. “I went to work real artful. 


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You see, Badgers's missus is a reg’lar, downright 
Tartar." 

‘Ts she as bad as that?" asked Nelly, amused. 

“Oh, yes ! she leads Badgers a dreadful life. It’s 
no wonder he squints, with such a wife as he’s got. 
Well, I hangs about the bakehouse and sympa- 
thises with Badgers, and says all the hard things 
as I could think on about womenkind. Oh, I laid 
it on thick!’’ 

Nelly smiled. “But you surely didn’t mean it, 
Jaikes?’’ 

The old man struck a match, and watched the 
wood kindle. 

“Not I, missus,’’ he replied, rising laboriously 
to his feet. “My private opinion of women is as 
they’re angels . . . and you in partic’lar, missus. 
Well, I kept on a-helping Badgers and a-sympa- 
thising with him, and at last Badgers he says: T 
know what you’re after, you old vagabond,’ he 
says.’’ 

“He called you an old vagabond, did he?’’ 
cried Nelly. “How dare he! But you mustn’t 
take any notice of that. You must put it down to 
his ignorance.’’ 

“Yes,’’ answered the old man delightedly, 
“that’s exactly what I did. ‘You’re after a job, 
you old scarecrow,’ says he. ‘Now be off! Get 
out! ’Cos I shan’t employ you,’ says he. And 
he takes a shilling out of the till and chucks it 


THE SILVER KING 


15B 


down at me ; and I picks it up, and says : ‘I take 
it, Mr. Badgers, just to show the respect as Fve got 
for you, and ’cos I know you’d be offended if I 
didn’t.” 

Nelly smiled on him once more. ‘‘That was 
clever of you, Jaikes, to earn a shilling that 
way.” 

“It was artful, wasn’t it?” he chuckled. “And 
now, missus, what shall we do with it?” 

“Well, Jaikes, it’s your money.” 

“No, no, missus,” protested the old man. “I 
only earned it for you and the dear little master 
and missy.” 

“Well, then, what do you think we ought to 
do with it?” 

Jaikes pondered. 

“Faggits is cheap and relishing,” he suggested. 

Nelly hid a slight grimace. “I don’t think they 
like faggots.” 

“No? Well, what do you say to some nice 
bloaters — soft-roed ones ?” 

“Yes, bloaters are nice. But do you think, 
Jaikes, that there is enough support in them for 
growing children?” 

Jaikes looked rather blank. 

“Well, perhaps there ain’t much support,” he 
said, scratching his scantily thatched head, “though 
there’s plenty of flavour. . . . Oh, I’ve got it, 
missus!” 


164 ! 


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His tone was triumphant, and Nelly waited to 
hear his great discovery. 

‘‘Saveloys,” he continued, watching eagerly to 
see how the idea struck her. “After all,” he 
urged, “there’s nothing like saveloys, is there? 
Talk about your partridge, your venison, and your 
’are, why. I’ve tasted saveloys as would give ’em 
all a start if it came to a question of game !” 

He stopped, for he saw that his eloquence had 
not convinced her. Rather sadly, he picked up 
the shilling and pressed it into her hand. 

“There, missus, you take the shilling and spend 
it how you think proper.” 

Nelly took the coin and looked at the old man 
affectionately. 

“You may be sure I shan’t forget half an ounce 
of tobacco for you, Jaikes,” she said. 

“Terbaccer! Now, don’t you, missus. I’ve 
given up smoking. ... You see, there’s so many 
boys ’ave took to it lately ... I thought it was 
about time for men to leave it off.” 

Nelly shook her head at him. ‘'Oh, Jaikes!” 
she said. “Well, at all events, I shall insist 
on your having a good, hearty meal with 
us.” 

“Now don’t you, missus,” he cried. ‘T ain’t 
hungry. I’ve been smelling the dinners cooking 
at Badgers’s all day long, and what with his roast 
beef and Yorkshire pudding, his steak-and-kidney 


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155 


pie, and his roast duck and stuffing . . . I’ve 
sniffed and sniffed at them till I’ve got a reg’lar 
attack of indigestion. No, I ain’t a bit hungry, 
really. Now- you make haste and get something 
for Master Ned by the time he wakes up.” 

Nelly went into the inner room to get her hat 
and an old shawl. 

*‘Jaikes,” she said, ‘dook how pretty he is in 
his sleep.” 

Jaikes went obediently to the door and looked 
in upon the little form lying so peacefully on the 
poor bed. 

‘‘Bless ’is ’cart!” he muttered. “How much 

he do remind me of But I mustn’t say that, 

must I?” 

“Oh, yes, say it, Jaikes! I like to think of him 
— my dear, dead Will! Whatever his faults were, 
he was always the best of husbands to me.” She 
leant against the bed for a moment, and tears ran 
down her face, while Jaikes watched her with con- 
torted features and trembling frame. Then she 
came across and led him quietly into the front 
room. She dried her tears and gave him a sad 
smile. 

“I mustn’t cry to-day,” she said, “now that we 
have been so fortunate. Dear old Jaikes, I do 
really feel much happier,” she insisted. “I think 
we shall weather the storm after all.” 

“Why, of course we shall,” he answered 


156 


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gruffly, but with a glad expression creeping into 
his dimmed eyes. course we shall, when I 

can go and earn shillings off-hand like that. I 
shall get lots of work and earn heaps of money. 
Lor^ bless you, missus, we're going to get on like 
a house afire now." 

Nelly shook the rough old hand. ‘'Dear, dear 
Jaikes," she repeated. “Now you wait here while 
I go and get something that will do Ned good. 
I’ll be back soon, and then we’ll have our Lord 
Mayor’s banquet — Ned and Cissy and you and I, 
all together.’’ 

Jaikes watched her go out, then closed the 
bedroom door gently, and began to poke the fire, 
puffing at it lustily the while. 

“Blow up, old Badgers,’’ he muttered to him- 
self. “There! that’s a-drawing up beautiful. We 
shall soon have quite a Fifth of November.” 

He stood up and eyed the cheerful blaze with 
satisfaction. 

“Master Ned’s sleeping as sound as a top,” he 
went on, half aloud; “Miss Cissy’ll be out of 
school soon, and she’ll take care of him. I wish I 
could earn another sixpence. We can’t have much 
of a Lord Mayor’s banquet on a shilling, but with 
eighteenpence what a treat we could have! I’ll 
have a try.” 

He opened the front door and looked out. The 


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157 


white flakes were still falling, but he thrust his cap 
resolutely on his head. 

“There’s life in the old dog yet,” he muttered 
again, and, stepping out into the snow, shut the 
door behind him. 


CHAPTER XVir 


Lesson-time was nearly over in the little red- 
brick schoolhouse opposite poor Nelly’s cottage; 
there was a shuffling of feet, and a noise of chil- 
dren standing up. 

Then to the simple accompaniment of a harmo- 
nium the sweet childish voices rang out in the old 
hymn : 

“What though my sins as mountains rise 
And reach and swell to Heaven, 

Yet Mercy is above the skies, 

I still may be forgiven. 

“Then let me stay in doubt no more 
Since there is sure release. 

For ever open stands the door — 

Repentance, Pardon, Peace.” 

“What though my sins as mountains rise ” 

A tall man with white hair and a heavily lined 
though still youthful face had walked slowly 
through the village and passed the little red-brick 
school house. 

As the fresh young voices, singing the well- 
remembered words of the old hymn, reached his 
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159 


ear he paused and turned his worn, thoughtful 
eyes upwards. “Repentance, pardon, peace he 
murmured. “How long since I heard those 
words !” 

As he stood for a moment apparently irresolute, 
the door of the schoolroom was flung open, and 
some two dozen girls, of ages varying from five 
to twelve, burst out across the playground in the 
direction of the road, chattering, laughing, and 
shouting shrilly to one another. 

A few of the more adventurous gathered up 
handfuls of snow, rolled them into balls, and flung 
them at their sedater schoolfellows ; some produced 
skipping-ropes, and began to warm themselves 
with vigorous skips; another party commenced a 
merry game of “Touch wood.’' A little, dark- 
haired girl with pale, delicate features, who had 
come out from the schoolroom alone and almost 
last, watched the last-mentioned group for a 
minute or two, and then approached it timidly. 

“Let me play with you, Annie,” she appealed 
to a big girl, who was just preparing to leave the 
shelter of the school gate, and dart to a post some 
distance away. 

The girl addressed looked at her disdainfully. 

“No, I certainly shan’t,” she cried. “Come 
away from her, girls,” she called to the other par- 
ticipants in the game. “Nobody is to speak to 
her. Come along.” 


160 


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She gave another withering glance at the smaller 
girl. 

‘‘Owr fathers and mothers are respectable,” she 
said, as she turned to lead the way through the 
gate into the road. The other girls, with that 
curious snobbery of childhood, which makes it 
turn up its nose at Lizzie “ ’cos her mother takes 
in washing,” or at Billy “ ’cos he wears his 
father’s old boots,” followed her in a flock. 

The younger girl looked at them with eyes 
rapidly filling. Left alone, she allowed the tears 
to trickle down her face on to her thin little shabby 
frock. She was slowly making her way out into 
the road, when another small girl crossed the play- 
ground and came up to her, holding out her hands. 

‘‘Don’t you cry. Cissy Denver,” she whispered 
consolingly. “Here, I’ve got a slice of cake for 
you. Don’t you tell anybody, will you? I love 
you, if the others don’t.” 

Cissy looked at her little friend gratefully and 
took the piece of cake with a sob. The other 
printed a hearty kiss on her tear-wet face and ran 
off, fearful lest she had been seen in her charitable 
act. 

The tall man in his heavy fur-lined overcoat had 
been standing near the school railings, watching 
the scene with curious eyes. As Cissy Denver 
came out, he addressed her in a gentle voice. 

“Why are you crying, my dear?” he asked. 


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161 


“The girls won’t play with me,” said Cissy, 
beginning to sob more loudly. “They won’t even 
speak to me.” 

“Why, how’s that?” asked the stranger. 
“What makes them so cruel? Come; tell me all 
about it. You’re not afraid of me, are you?” 

Cissy looked up at him shyly. Through her 
tears she could see that he had a kindly face, and 
that his hair was white. 

“No,” she murmured. “I’m not afraid — I like 
you.” 

“That’s right, then,” the stranger said. “I 
thought we should get on together. Now, tell me 
all your troubles. Why won’t they play with 
you ?” 

Cissy glanced about her nervously. “You 
won’t tell anyone, will you?” she asked, looking 
up at his face again. Then, reassured by his 
expression, she whispered faintly, “They say — 
that my father killed a man.” 

The old gentleman — for so in her mind Cissy 
classed him — ^gave a great start and turned his 
head away, whether in pain or in disgust she could 
not tell. Her lips drooped sorrowfully. 

“Oh, that makes you too hate me !” she 
faltered. 

“No, no, don’t think that. I don’t hate you,” 
was the answer in a queer, strangled voice. “But 
tell me, what is your name?” 


162 


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“Cissy Denver/’ she told him wonderingly, 
and to her surprise she saw him cover his face 
with his hands and stand before her shaking- with 
an emotion which, young as she was, she under- 
stood only too well. 

“Why, you are crying!” she exclaimed. “Oh, 
please, what is the matter?” 

“Never mind me, never mind me,” the stranger 
answered brokenly. “Where do you live?” 

“Just down the street. In that house over 
there.” 

“That cottage across the way?” 

“Yes. Will you come and see it?” 

She held out her hand confidingly. The stranger 
took it and walked with her slowly along the street. 

Wilfred Denver’s heart tortured him as he 
entered the wretched cottage, with his just re- 
covered daughter — his little Cissy, whom he had 
left scarcely more than a toddling baby. The 
bitterness of it — to find her again like this, in 
utmost poverty, starving, miserable, paying with 
her innocent life for his crime! The sins of the 
father were indeed visited upon the children. How 
differently he had pictured her — all his dear ones 
— in the midst of that new life which had brought 
him such wonderful success and enabled him to 
remit to the old country sums that should have 
been ample to sustain them all ! With difficulty he 


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163 


restrained a moan which would have revealed his 
anguish. 

But if the sight of the cottage struck sorrow into 
Wilfred Denver’s soul, it seemed to inspire Cissy 
with joy. She ran up to the fireplace and held out 
her hands to the blaze gleefully. 

“Oh, look!” she cried. “A fire! A fire! We 
haven't had a fire for I don't know how long.” 

Denver shuddered, but he came to her and 
questioned her in a voice which he strove vainly 
to make calm. 

“Who else lives with you. Cissy?” 

“Mother and Ned and our old Jaikes,” she 
answered, looking up at him brightly. “You 
don't know our old Jaikes. Oh, I do love him!” 

“God bless him!” cried Denver. “But where 
are the others now, Cissy?” 

“I dare say Jaikes has gone to get some work, 
and mother must be in the next room, nursing Ned. 
I'll go and tell her someone's here.” 

She ran across to the dpor of the bedroom and 
peered in quietly. 

“No, mother isn't at home. Oh, I know! We 
can't pay our rent, and she's gone to ask the 
gentleman to let us stop, on for a few days.” 

Not comprehending Denver's gesture of despair; 
she laid a finger on her lips and smiled at him. 
“Sh! Ned's in there; he's asleep. You mustn't 
wake him. He's been very ill.” 


164 


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‘111!” he gasped. “Not very ill? Not dan- 
gerously ill?’" 

“Yes; but he’s getting better now.” 

“What’s been the matter with him?” 

“Won’t you sit down near the fire? There’s 
only one good chair, but you may have that.” 

Denver sat down with a sad smile at the child’s 
grave politeness, and held out his arms. Cissy 
accepted the invitation and seated herself on his 
knees. 

“The doctor says Ned’s not had enough to eat,” 
she pursued. “We have been so poor. Some- 
times we’ve had hardly anything to eat for days! 
Mother tried to get a living by teaching, but when 
people found out who my father was, they wouldn’t 
let her teach any more.” 

The man writhed. “But your mother has had 
some money? Some friends have sent her some, 
eh?” he implored. 

“No; she has no friends. Who would send her 
money?” 

A fresh spasm of pain contracted Denver’s 
features. So it had never reached her! 

“And does the doctor think your little brother 
will get better ?” he asked with an effort. 

The child looked up at him eagerly. “Yes, if 
he could have nice things to eat.” 

“So he shall — everything that money can buy.’^ 

Cissy felt herself lifted gently off the old gentle- 


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165 


man’s knee, and with wondering eyes saw him pull 
a purse out of his pocket and empty a heap of 
gold coins upon the table. Then he thrust his 
hand into another pocket and brought out a hand- 
ful of silver. Stuffing both gold and silver into 
the purse, he handed it to her. “Here, take 
this,” he said. “You’ll find plenty of money 
in it.” 

“Is that for mother?” she cried. “Oh, that 
is kind! And what will you do without it?” 

“Oh, I’ve got plenty more at home,” the old 
gentleman answered. “And now” — he gazed at 
her with a funny, hungry look in his eyes — “I 
wonder if you’ll give me a kiss?” 

“Yes, of course I will,” she said, putting up 
her face. 

Denver bent over her and kissed her passionately. 
How he longed to reveal to his daughter who he 
was and to give free vent to his feelings as a 
father ! But since that was impossible, he must not 
frighten the poor child. 

“Don’t take any notice of me, dear,” he said. 
“Don’t mind my kissing you like that. I had a 
little girl of my own once, and when I kiss you it 
seems as if she came back to me again.” 

“Is she dead, your little girl?” asked Cissy, 
with pitying eyes. 

“Yes, dead ... to me.” His voice died away. 
How could he tell lies to her? “Suppose, Cissy,” 


166 


THE SILVER KING 


he went on at last, ^*that you had been . . . that 
I had been your father?” 

‘‘Oh, I know I should have been very fond of 
you,” was the unhesitating answer. 

He bent over her and kissed her again hurriedly. 
“God bless you, my darling,” he cried. “You 
mustn’t mind when your schoolfellows speak 
unkindly of your dead father.” 

“I won’t. I don’t believe it’s true. I don’t 
believe he was a bad man, because, if he had been, 
mother and Jaikes wouldn’t have been so fond of 
him.” 

“Always think that, my dear; always think 
that. But now run and find your mother and give 
her that purse.” 

He did not want her to go, but he felt he could 
not trust himself any longer. Better that he should 
never see her again than that he should reveal his 
awful secret. 

Cissy prepared to obey. “I’ll go to Mr. 
Skinner’s house, over there across the fields, and 
see if she’s still there,” she said. “But who shall 
I say gave me the purse?” 

“Say that somebody gave it to you who 
happened to see you and thought you were 
like a little girl he had lost. And say, too, 
that ” 

His voice trembled, and he paused. 

“Yes? What else shall I say?” 


THE SILVER KING 


167 


‘‘No, dear, there is no other message. Your 
mother does not know me.’’ He led her gently 
out of the cottage. “Run along and make haste 
to tell her of your good-fortune.” 

“Yes, that I will!” She presented her mouth 
for a fresh kiss, and sped across the road. 

Denver stood watching her out of sight with 
eager eyes and a bursting heart. Then he slowly 
re-entered the wretched cottage. 

“I cannot go without one look at my boy, my 
little baby boy!” he murmured. 

Slowly, quietly, reverently, almost as one who 
fears to tread on holy ground, he went through into 
the miserable inner room. 

There on a wretched couch, only partly covered 
in miserable pieces of sacking, a child lay asleep. 
Flushed with fever, yet thin, so thin, his poor 
little restless hands like a bird’s claws, he lay. 

The father stood and gazed at him, stunned with 
pity and remorse. To this had he brought his child. 

He groaned aloud. “My son, my child, my 
little baby boy that I left behind, so wasted, so 
pale, so ill. Is there no end to my sin? no 
ceasing of its bitter fruit?” 

The child stirred in its sleep. Denver gazed at 
it in terror lest he had waked it. 

But the boy settled down again, and with blind- 
ing tears in his eyes Denver tiptoed softly from 
the room. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Old Jaikes hobbled homewards towards the cot- 
tage through the gathering darkness, his wrinkled 
face wearing a very different expression from that 
with which he had left his beloved ‘‘missus’' an 
hour before. His hands were thrust deep into his 
empty pockets, and he muttered incessantly to him- 
self as he plodded through the snow. 

“Artfulness ain’t done it this time. Not a 
blessed ’a’penny to bring ’ome to them !” he 
grunted as he pushed open the door and entered 
the cottage. 

All was still ; save for the flicker from the hearth 
there was no light. 

“Why, I wonder where the missy is 1” he 
exclaimed. 

The inner door creaked as he spoke, and a dark 
figure came out into the room. Jaikes could see 
that it was not one of the inmates of the cottage. 
It looked like a man. 

“Hillo!” he cried. “What are you doing in 
there?” 

He fumbled for a match-box, and, striking a 
light, set it to the wick of a dip candle standing on 
168 


THE SILVER KING 


169 


the broken cupboard which helped the table and 
the chairs to furnish the room. 

He could now see that the stranger was a tall 
man, with a^heavy, fur-lined overcoat, and white 
hair, but a thick muffler under his upturned collar 
effectually hid the lower part of his face. Jaikes 
waited for him to speak. 

“Pardon my intrusion” — the voice was soft and 
deep — “I was passing your cottage and happened 
to come in. I take a great interest in the sick 
poor. There’s a little boy in that room danger- 
ously ill. You must send for the doctor to see 
him at once. Have the best advice you can get, 
and give him some nourishing food — ^the best of 
everything.” 

“Oh, yes, that’s all very well,” said Jaikes in 
an irritated tone; “but where’s the money to 
come from?” 

The other made as though to feel for his purse, 
then seemed to recollect something. 

“I will pay for whatever is required,” he 
answered at last. “I have just given away all the 
money I had about me, but you can have the bills 
sent to me. Say it is for Mr. John Franklin, 
Kensington Gardens Avenue, London.” 

Jaikes shook his head. 

“It’s likely I can get tick on the strength o’ 
that, ain’t it?” he asked with a growl. “A 
pound o’ tea and a quartern loaf, and put it down 


170 


THE SILVER KING 


to Mr. John Franklin, Kensington Gardens Avenue, 
London !’’ 

‘‘Only do as I tell you. You will find that it 
is all right.’’ 

“Who is Mr. John Franklin?” asked Jaikes, 
totally unconvinced. “If you want to help us, 
why don’t you give us some money, and why 
don’t you let me have a look at your face?” 

He lifted the dip candle as he spoke, and peered 
into the stranger’s features. The other turned 
down his collar and loosened his muffler. 

The effect on the old man was electrical. He 
dropped on his knees feebly. 

“Master Will!” he gasped; “Master Will! 
Oh, God forgive me! it’s Master Will come back 
from the dead! Say it’s really you. Master Will! 
I never knew you with that white ’air . . . and me 
thinking you was dead ... all these years.” 

Denver raised the trembling old man gently to 
his feet. 

“Yes, Jaikes, it is I; come back again from the 
dead. You may well say it! And now,” he con- 
tinued eagerly, “my wife, is she well? How is 
she? Has she suffered much? Does she ever 
speak of me?” 

Jaikes gazed at him with a face in which joy 
and anguish fought hard for the mastery. “Oh, 
Master Will!” he cried, “I can’t tell you what 
she’s had to go through. It’s been a terrible hard 


THE SILVER KING 


171 


fight for her, but she’s borne up like an angel. 
Oh, sir! you’ve come back just at the right time. 
We’re nearly starving!” 

Denver took a chair — Cissy’s ‘‘one good one,” 
he thought with a smile — and set the old man 
down in it. 

“Ah, the starving is all over now, Jaikes!” 
he said joyfully. “I’m rich! I’m rich, Jaikes! 
When I left England I went to America, to the 
silver mines of Nevada. I had to struggle hard at 
first, and I could only send you a few dollars. I 
was almost starving myself. But one day I struck 
a rich vein of silver — to-day I have more money 
than I can count — and then I sent you a thousand 
dollars. And did none — did none of it ever 
reach you?” 

“None; nothing at all,” sighed Jaikes. “You 
see, sir, we’ve changed our address so often, and 
she always took care not to leave our address, for 
fear ” 

He stopped, and watched his master’s face, in 
which the features were working painfully. 

“I see,” said Denver. “For fear my wretched 
story should follow you and ruin you all again.” 

“Oh, sir, don’t say any more about that,” 
implored Jaikes, no longer attempting to restrain a 
sob. “Don’t say anything more; that’s all past. 
Don’t you mind my crying, sir. To see you come 
back like this is too much for me. I can’t believe 


172 


THE SILVER KING 


it's true, sir. And Miss Nelly . . . she'll go mad 
with joy." 

‘‘She must not know, Jaikes," said Denver 
quickly. 

“Not know? Not tell her, Master Will?" 

“Not yet. Listen, Jaikes. I have come back 
to England with only one thought, with only one 
resolve — to make her happy. Whatever happens 
to me, I will do that. Can I ask her to share my 
nightmare of a life, put her on a ceaseless rack of 
anxiety and suspense, torture her as I am tortured ? 
Heaven forbid!" 

He readjusted his muffler round his neck and 
turned up his coat collar as he spoke, and moved 
towards the door. 

Jaikes hobbled after him. 

“Surely, Master Will," he exclaimed as they 
passed out into the street, “you must be safe after 
all these years?” 

Denver halted a few steps outside the cottage 
door. 

“Jaikes," he said mournfully, “I shall never 
be safe until I stand in the dock to answer for my 
crime. I shall be safe then. Do you know, I 
have started a hundred times to give myself up, 
but I have always been held back by the thought 
that I was not myself that dreadful night. But 
detection will come, Jaikes. It may be to-morrow, 
or it may not be for years, yet it will come; and 


THE SILVER KING 173 


if I were to join her, suspicion would be aroused 
at once. I might be discovered, dragged from her 
side, tried, condemned, and hanged.^' 

The old man moaned. 

“Master Will,’' he pleaded, “don’t talk like 
that! Oh, if missus could only know you was 
alive I If she could only know !” 

“Not yet, Jaikes,” said Denver earnestly. 
“Listen. You shall take her from this poverty 
and put her back in her old home, where I met 
her as a girl — where we lived when we were first 
married. Put her back there, with everything 
that money can buy; and then, when I have made 
her rich, cheerful, contented, I will ask myself 
whether I may dare to throw the shadow of my life 
across her happiness. In the meantime, promise 
me that she shall not know. Come, you must 
swear it to me.” 

The old man’s eyes were those of a faithful 
dog. 

“Of course . . . Master Will ... if you wish 
it,” he faltered. 

“And now, Jaikes,” went on Denver, “I must 
have one look at her. I am dying to see her dear 
face, if I cannot hear a word from her lips. I can’t 
do that, can I ? But I must see her, without being 
seen.” 

Jaikes brightened. “Why, that’s easily man- 
aged,” he said. “If you stand there, in the 


174 


THE SILVER KING 


shadow by the window, you^ll be able to see her 
and to hear her speak . . . the window ain’t none 
too good; you can hear most anything through it 
. . . and she’ll be none the wiser.” 

Denver pressed his hand as he followed him into 
the shadow by the window. 

“Dear old Jaikes!” he murmured; “God bless 
you for all your kindness. God bless you! I 
shall never be able to repay you.” 

“There now, don’t you talk nothing about that. 
Master Will,” returned the old man. “Why, to 
see you come back like this pays me fifty times 
over. I always said as you would come back. I 
always said it.” 

A light step was heard on the crisp snow, and a 
slender dark-clad form passed into the circle of 
light thrown by the street lamp across the way. 
Denver shrank farther back into the shadow, and 
drew Jaikes back with him. With burning eyes 
he watched his wife make her way across the white 
road, and, lifting the latch, enter the poor hovel 
which was her only shelter against the world. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Nelly Denver looked upon the room with a 
puzzled air. The dip candle was still burning on 
the table where it had been set down, and the fire 
had evidently not been neglected. But there was 
no one about. 

‘T wonder where Jaikes and Cissy are,*^ she 
exclaimed. 

She put a parcel down on the table, went to the 
door of the bedroom, and looked in. At any rate, 
there was Ned, still peacefully slumbering. She 
gave a sigh of content, and came back to the table. 
The little parcel contained enough to keep off 
starvation for another day. She unfastened the 
paper and took out a loaf, a quarter of a pound of 
tea, and the few oddments which she had been 
able to beg from the butcher and the greengrocer 
for the remainder of her shilling. From the bat- 
tered cupboard she took out an old saucepan and 
some plates, and began to busy herself with the 
preparations of the meal — ‘‘the regular Lord 
Mayor’s banquet,” she said to herself with a sad 
little smile, as the recollection of Jaikes’s ludicrous 
phrase crossed her mind. 

A short staccato knock sounded on the door. 

175 


176 


THE SILVER KING 


‘^Come in/’ she cried. 

The door opened, and a woman entered. Nelly 
started as she recognised her landlord’s wife. 

‘'Mrs. Skinner!” she stammered. 

Olive Skinner was muffled up in a big cloak, her 
head was bare except for a light silk shawl, and she 
held an umbrella in her hand, from which the snow 
melted and dropped in water upon the floor. She 
panted while she spoke, as though she had been 
walking very fast. 

‘T am the bearer of bad news,” she said. “My 
husband has repented of his kindness. ... I found 
it out just as I was dressing for dinner . . . and 
came at once to tell you. . . . He will not let you 
stay here.” 

“Not let me stay here?” repeated Nelly 
brokenly, her terror-stricken eyes fixed upon her 
visitor. 

“No,” answered the other woman, with quiver- 
ing mouth and eyes full of tears. “Since you left, 
he has learned who you are. He has found out 
that you are the wife of a ” 

“Ah-h! for pity’s sake don’t say it,” cried Nelly. 
“I have heard the word so often. Yes, it is true. 
I am the widow of such a man, and for that I am 
to be punished, it seems ... I and my children.” 

She sank into a chair and bowed her head upon 
the table, amid all the preparations for the “ban- 
quet,” her shoulders shaking with sobs. 


THE SILVER KING 


177 


Olive gazed at her desperately. A strange look 
came into her eyes. 

‘‘Who knows it is true?” she asked in a low 
voice. “Who knows that your husband did really 
kill that man? It was never proved. He was 
never tried. There may have been some terrible 
mistake.” 

Nelly sat up. 

“What do you mean?” she whispered. 
“What do you know?” 

Her visitor gave her a frightened glance. “Oh, 
nothing,” she replied vaguely. “I only thought 
it might comfort you if you could think your 
husband was innocent. It could do no harm, now 
that he is dead.” 

Nelly Denver was too crushed to notice how 
uneasy the speaker was. She stood up and 
mechanically began to put out upon a plate the 
scraps of meat which she had brought home. 
Olive watched her in silence for a minute. 

The sound of men’s voices outside seemed to 
recall her to herself. She spoke again. 

“But I am forgetting my errand, Mrs. . . . 
Nelly, didn’t you say? I came here to help you, 
and I dare not stay.” 

She turned back her long cloak and produced a 
purse from somewhere within. 

“Here are three pounds and some odd shil- 


178 


THE SILVER KING 


lings,” she said hurriedly. ‘‘It is all I have. 
Take it; it will pay the rent you owe.” 

Out in the snow two men watched the foregoing 
scene — Wilfred Denver and old Jaikes. Peering 
through the window, they could see all that hap- 
pened, and the broken pane enabled them to hear 
almost every word. Never before had Jaikes felt 
inclined to bless his own inexpertness as a mender 
of glass, but now he thankfully recognised the 
advantages of the ill-pasted brown-paper sheet. 

Voices across the street — the same voices which 
had reached Olive’s ears — caused the watchers 
momentarily to turn their heads. Three men had 
halted under a street lamp, and one of them, after a 
few parting words to the others, crossed the road 
and came to the door of the cottage, knocked, lifted 
the latch without waiting for permission, and 
walked in. 

Jaikes felt his arm gripped fiercely. 

“That is the man,” whispered Denver excitedly, 
“who showed me into Geoffrey Ware’s rooms that 
dreadful night. I am sure of it. What’s he doing 
here? What does it mean?” 

They saw Mr. Eliah Coombe go up to the table 
and put his broad, dirty hand over the purse which 
Olive had just laid there. 

“This is quite unnecessary, ma’am,” he said. 


THE SILVER KING 


179 


‘I’ll take it to your husband. You had better go 
to him. He wants you.” 

Olive gave a glance of repulsion, but there was 
something in his eyes which seemed to hypnotise 
her. She drew her cloak closely about her, and 
shivered. Then she walked to the door. 

“My husband!” she cried passionately. “Oh, 
if he were only not my husband !” 

Coombe’s beard wagged. “You shouldn’t have 
taken your place for life, then,” he called after 
her as she went. 

Left alone with Nelly, Coombe pulled a chair 
towards him and sat down somewhat gingerly upon 
it. He tapped the table with a forefinger, and 
looked at Nelly with an air that might have been 
meant to be benevolent. 

“Now, my dear good lady,” he began, “there’s 
a pleasant way of doing business and an unpleas- 
ant. I always tries the pleasant way first.” 

Since his entrance into the cottage Nelly had sat 
motionless. Something within her had seemed to 
paralyse her limbs as the old ruffian snatched, 
almost from her grasp, the last resource against 
fate which Mrs. Skinner had brought her, and 
drove her would-be protectress with jeering words 
from the room. Now at length she roused herself 
from her stupor and sprang up. 

“Oh, don’t make a long story of it,” she cried. 


180 


THE SILVER KING 


‘'You have come to turn me out, isn’t that 
so ?” 

“Oh dear no!” said Coombe pleasantly. “Fve 
only come to ask you, in the kindest possible 
manner, to pay your rent. Three pound five 
shillings.” 

“How can I pay it? Mrs. Skinner ” 

“Gave you what wasn’t hers to give,” Coombe 
broke in. “I am asking for your rent. Three 
pound five shillings,” he repeated. 

“I haven’t another shilling in the world, and 
you know I haven’t.” 

He shook his head. “Ah, that’s a pity ! 
Because, as you can’t pay, out you must go.” 

“No, no!” All trace of defiance had faded 
from her voice, leaving nothing but miserable 
despair. She held out her poor thin hands to him 
imploringly. “Let me stay here to-night, only 
to-night!” she began. “My child is in that room, 
very ill, and if he is moved in this bitter weather 
it will kill him. Let me stay to-night. I can do 
no harm.” 

Coombe stood up, and his tones became more 
sharp and menacing. “Now, look ’ere, my dear 
good lady,” he said. “It’s no use your begging 
and praying to me, because go you must.” 

“Oh, is there no tenderness, no pity on the 
earth!” she moaned. 


THE SILVER KING 


181 


‘‘Look sharp/’ was the only reply. “Are you 
going to pack up your things ?” 

“Yes, yes; give me a little time. I will go.” 

Nelly groped her way blindly to the inner door 
and went in. The old man seated himself on the 
table, with a contemptuous glance at the prepara- 
tions for the meal, and began to stroke his beard 
and whiskers. 

A few minutes elapsed. Then the door of the 
bedroom opened again, and Nelly came back. 
Her demeanour was altered entirely. The broken, 
weeping woman was gone, and in her stead there 
had come the brave mother fighting for her child’s 
life. She faced her tormentor fiercely. 

“No, I will not go!” she cried. “My little 
boy is sleeping. He is getting better. I will not 
wake him and take him out into the bitter cold to 
kill him. I will not go!” 

She turned the key in the door resolutely and 
slipped it into the bosom of her dress. 

Coombe snififed and looked at her quite unmoved. 

“Are you going quietly,” he asked, “or shall 
I have to fetch my men in to turn you out?” 

“I tell you I will not go. Go back and tell your 
master that here I stay — I and my children — until 
he drags our bodies out and flings them into the 
street.” 

“Oh, very well,” Coombe replied; “we must 


182 


THE SILVER KING 


try the unpleasant way, then” — and he began to 
move towards the street door. 

‘‘Jaikes, I can bear this no longer!” cried 
Denver. He stepped from the shadow of the 
window as he spoke; but the old man hobbled 
quickly after him, stiff with cold as he was, and 
laid his hands upon his arm. 

‘'Master Will,” he implored, “what can we do? 
Those detectives you talked about — suppose you 
should be recognised! What can we do?” 

“Would you have me watch her thrown out into 
the street, man?” asked Denver furiously. 

A few rapid strides brought him to the door, and 
he was on the point of entering, when suddenly 
light running footsteps were heard, and a child’s 
form appeared, crossing the road. 

He gave a sigh of relief. “Cissy! At last! 
Thank God!” And drawing quickly back, he let 
the child pass him unseen. 

“Mother!” he could hear her cry as she burst 
impetuously into the cottage, “look what the 
kind gentleman has given me !” 

It was his money. The child had arrived back 
from her vain errand to Skinner’s house, in time 
to save them all. He heard an answering cry 
from Nelly, an exclamation from the man. 

“You have your money — now it is you who go!” 
pealed his wife’s voice, and in another moment 
Coombe passed by, on his way back to Skinner’s 


THE SILVER KING 


183 


house, his hat on the back of his head, and his 
outstretched fingers imploring the sky. 

Denver turned to Jaikes, with tears of thankful- 
ness running down his cheeks. 

‘‘Thank God she was in time,” he gasped. 

“Aye, and thank God you didn’t have to go 
rushing out among them,” replied the old man. 

“I could not have resisted it. One more 
moment and I must have thrown all else to the 
winds,” cried Denver. “My poor Nelly! My 
little boy who is so ill! I could not have stood it 
an instant longer.” 

“Well, all’s well now,” said Jaikes. 

“Yes, for the time,” answered Denver, “but 
something must be done ; we must arrange 
something at once for them, and for you, old 
friend.” 

“Never mind me,” exclaimed Jaikes. “I’m 
enjoying myself finely looking after little missy.” 

“We must put her back in the old home,” cried 
Denver, “and soon; and you must manage it. 
Come and see me in London as soon as possible.” 

“And where shall I come?” inquired Jaikes. 
“London’s a biggish place to look for anyone in.” 

“Here is my card,” said Denver; “that will tell 
you.” 

“ ‘Mr. John Franklin, Kensington Gardens 
Avenue,’ ” read Jaikes. “So that’s who you are 
now. Master Wilfred. Fancy that now! Why, I 


184 


THE SILVER KING 


saw in one of them newspapers all sorts of wonders 
about Mr. John Franklin, the new millionaire/' 

‘The new millions cannot wipe out the old 
sorrow," replied Denver brokenly. “The money 
is useless to me except in so far as I can do good 
with it and help others. But time presses. I 
must catch the train to London. Good-bye, old 
friend, for the present. Come to me as soon as 
possible." 

With these words Denver vanished, going 
rapidly towards the station; while Jaikes in a 
tumult of joy went into the cottage. 

There he found a scene of rejoicing such as he 
had not witnessed for years. 

Nelly was on her knees, half laughing, half 
crying with the shock of the sudden change in 
her fortunes, while round her eagerly danced little 
Cissy like a good fairy. Indeed she felt that she 
herself had had no small share in these wonderful 
happenings. 

“Lots of money," shrieked Cissy, “lots and 
lots and lots. And now we've paid oiir rent, and 
we can have dinner every day, and Ned will get 
well and strong. Oh! it seems too good to be 
true." 

And so in the nick of time Denver began his 
work of expiation to those he had so cruelly 
wronged. 


CHAPTER XX 


Denver meantime had reached the station and 
was by now well on his way back to London. 

As he lay back in his luxurious first-class com- 
partment, what a medley of thoughts possessed his 
tormented mind. 

True they were thoughts of joy : joy that he had 
at any rate the means to alleviate the hardships he 
had brought on his beloved ones — ^joy that he had 
succeeded in finding them thus in the very nick of 
time — ^joy that he was going to put them into a 
position of wealth and prosperity again. 

Such were the joys; more indeed — far, far more 
than any that had come to him since the dreadful 
day of his flight. 

But how small they were — how utterly insignifi- 
cant when compared with the overwhelming balance 
of sorrow from which there was no escape; of 
remorse from which there was no flight; of appre- 
hension from which there was no ceasing. 

He had relieved those he loved. But whose fault 
was it they needed relief? His boy was saved — 
perhaps ? But through whose crimes had the 
innocent child been put into that inferno of want 
185 


1S6 


THE SILVER KING 


and suffering ? Suppose his constitution were 
undermined by these hardships! What if his 
health never recovered, and he never again became 
the bright, bonny child of three years ago? 

And if he did recover — ^to what would he recover? 
Money indeed; but shame, concealment, ignominy. 

Denver groaned aloud in his self-torture. The 
brand of Cain was on his brow; through him it lay 
on those he loved. 

He dared not disclose himself to them ; he dared 
not go near them. Only from afar could he watch 
and help: an exile, an outcast from all human love 
and affection. 

From these torturing thoughts he was aroused by 
the arrival of the train in London. 

With a sigh of relief he got out of the train, and 
made his solitary way home. 

Home! What a mockery was the word as 
applied to the great house in which dwelt the lonely 
and miserable millionaire — surrounded by nothing 
but paid servants ; far removed from every associa- 
tion that gives the word its meaning. 

The house in Kensington Gardens Avenue which 
was rented in the name of ‘‘Mr. John Franklin” 
was in every way in keeping with the reputation 
which its tenant had made in the few months since 
he had come to London from Nevada with his 
fortune. Everything about it was solid, handsome, 
unostentatious. From it you could divine the 


THE SILVER KING 


187 


wealthy man who, without sparing expense, yet 
avoided the pretension and show of so many of his 
fellow-rich. Entering through the spacious hall, 
you found stairs, carpeted thickly but in a sober 
tone, which led you to a suite of rooms on the first 
floor, all comfortable but all quiet, with no profu- 
sion of furniture and only a few pictures of admir- 
able taste upon the walls. 

In one of those rooms, which two rolltop desks 
and the general severity of decoration showed to be 
an office, sat a young man, Frank Selwyn, secretary 
to London’s latest millionaire, listlessly turning 
over the pages of a ledger and chewing the end 
of a pen. His face wore a restless, discontented 
expression, and it was easy to tell that his thoughts 
were not with the work before him. He started as 
a rap came at the door. 

“Come in,” he cried. 

“A gentleman to see Mr. Franklin,” announced 
a footman, showing in the visitor as he spoke. 

The young man gave the latter a rapid glance, 
but could discover nothing more than that he was 
middle-aged, rather thickly built, and had keen 
eyes. 

“Will you take a seat,” he said. 

“Mr. John Franklin not in?” asked the visitor, 
without accepting the invitation. 

“No; Fm his private secretary.” 

“Oh!” was the reply, in a very dry tone of 


188 


THE SILVER KING 


voice, "‘you are his private secretary, are you?’’ 

Selwyn looked uneasy. ‘‘Perhaps I might do 
instead,’" he suggested. 

“No, I think not. When can I see Mr. 
Franklin?” 

“It’s uncertain when he will come back. What 
is your business?” 

The visitor stood looking at the secretary for 
a second or two. “That’s my business,” he 
answered. “I’ll wait.” 

He moved nonchalantly across the room and 
began to study a map of Nevada which hung upon 
one of the walls. 

Selwyn’s foot tapped uneasily against his desk, 
and he watched the enigmatic intruder out of the 
corner of his eye. At last the silence was broken 
again. 

“I suppose,” came the question, “that you’ve 
got a nice, comfortable berth as Mr. Franklin’s 
private secretary?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very rich man, isn’t he?” 

“Very.” 

“Made his money in silver mines, didn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah, so I heard. . . . Went to bed one night a 
common miner, and the next a millionaire.” 

“That is the story,” agreed Selwyn. “They 
call him the ‘Silver King,’ you know.” 


THE SILVER KING 


189 


‘‘Gives away a lot of money, does he not?"' 
pursued the smooth voice. 

The secretary stood up. “His whole life is spent 
in doing good,’’ he exclaimed warmly. “He’s as 
noble and as generous as he is rich.” 

Was it his fancy, or did a more piercing look 
come into the other man’s eyes? And was there 
something sinister behind the smoothness of his 
voice as he retorted : 

“And Mr. Franklin employs you to look after 
the deserving cases, doesn’t he? Trusts you with 
his purse and cheque-book occasionally, ehf'' 

The last syllable came like a shot. Selwyn 
grasped the edge of the desk. 

“What do you mean?” he muttered unsteadily. 

The voice grew wonderfully quiet again, almost 
expressionless. “Nothing. Only you must take 
care he doesn’t get ‘imposed upon.” 

The younger man swayed and closed his eyes. 
He opened them again to see his employer standing 
in the doorway. 

“Someone to see me, Frank?” 

Before he had time to answer, the visitor had 
stepped forward with a quick question: 

“Mr. John Franklin?” 

Franklin (or ’Wilfred Denver, as we must call 
him) looked somewhat surprised, but he bowed 
gravely as he replied. “Yes, I am John Frank- 
lin,” he said. “What do you want?” 


190 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘I beg pardon. That’s my card/’ and the 
visitor pulled a piece of pasteboard from his pocket. 
‘‘Sam Baxter, Scotland Yard,” he said. 

Had the secretary been watching his employer he 
would have seen a curiously apprehensive flicker 
cross his eyes. But he had stooped over his desk 
agitatedly and begun to gather together some 
papers. 

“Well,” he heard his employer say, “what is 
your business? I must beg you to make haste, as 
I have to catch a train into the country.” 

“Then I’ll come to the point at once,” replied 
the detective. He thrust a hand into his breast 
pocket and drew out a leather pocket-book. “You 
need not go,” Mr. Private Secretary,” he added. 
“We may want you.” 

Selwyn had moved in the direction of the door, 
with a bundle of papers in his hand. He stopped 
as Baxter spoke to him, and walked back to the 
desk, his head hanging down, his expression one 
of shame and despair. 

Baxter turned towards Denver, eyeing him 
curiously. He took from his pocket-book a cheque 
and held it up. 

“You bank at the County and Metropolitan, Mr. 
Franklin? This cheque was presented yesterday 
for payment in the ordinary way. The clerk re- 
fused to cash it, detained the presenter, and sent 


THE SILVER KING 191 


for you immediately. You were not at home, and 
so the affair was placed in my hands.” 

At the detective’s first few words a look of relief 
came into Denver’s eyes. As he went on, the look 
changed to one of pity. 

Selwyn made as though to speak, but a little, 
almost imperceptible gesture of his employer’s hand 
warned him to keep silence. 

‘‘Let me see the cheque,” said Denver quietly. 

Baxter handed it over to him. 

“Well?” asked Denver. 

“That signature, sir?” the detective asked in his 
turn. “Well?” 

Denver looked at the cheque for a moment, then 
at the detective. “Yes, it is quite right,” he 
answered — and again Selwyn saw the little gesture. 
“The signature is rather an awkward one. I was 
in a hurry when I wrote it. Do you doubt me?” 
he concluded more sharply. 

Baxter shrugged his shoulders and smiled a 
resigned smile. 

“Oh no, sir; not in the slightest. If you say so, 
sir, of course it’s all right. If you wrote the 
cheque, why, there’s an end of the matter, isn’t 
there, sir?” 

“I think so,” Denver answered dryly. He 
resented the man’s tone, and still more the 
cool, penetrating glances with which he had been 
favouring him, as if he were trying to read his past 


192 


THE SILVER KING 


in his face. It might be only fancy, of course, but 
something about the fellow made him feel anxious. 
In any case, he had no wish to prolong the inter- 
view with Scotland Yard. 

He put his hand in his pocket. “Please take the 
cheque to the bank,'’ he said, “and tell the cashier 
that it is all right. ... If necessary, I will call 
there to-morrow and assure them so myself. In the 
meantime, will you accept a five-pound note for 
your trouble?” 

Baxter smiled more pleasantly this time, took the 
proffered note, and stowed both it and the cheque 
away. “Thank you, sir,” he answered. “And if 
ever you should want my assistance in any little 
matter of business I shall be happy to oblige you, 
sir . . . and to keep my mouth shut.” 

Denver turned to the bell and rang it. 
“Thanks; I have your card,” he said rather 
hurriedly. “My servant will show you to the 
door,” he added. “Good day.” 

“Good day, Mr. Franklin.” And the door closed 
behind the detective. 

Left alone with his secretary, Denver walked up 
to the young man, who had not stirred from the 
desk since Baxter had stopped him. He laid a 
hand gently on his shoulder, and said in a tone in 
which there was no anger, only deep pity : “Don't 
do it again, my boy; don't do it again.” 

Selwyn gave a sob. “Oh, I never will, sir. 


THE SILVER KING 


193 


Your kindness . . . breaks my heart. I’ve been 
such a bad lot. ... I don’t deserve that you 
should forgive me. I shall be ashamed to meet 
you in the future, sir.” 

‘‘Oh, I hope not, Frank. This was your first 
step downwards. Pray that it may be your last.” 

“It shall, it shall!” cried Selwyn fervently, 
catching at the hand which his employer held out 
to him. 

Denver smiled at him affectionately. “Re- 
member, I still trust you,” he said, and pressed the 
young man’s hand. 

“God bless you, sir! I will make a fresh start 
to-day.” 

“That’s right, Frank. And now I must have 
a hansom. Will you see that they get one 
for me?” 

Denver gave a sigh of relief as the secretary left 
the room. The boy was all right, he felt sure; 
only led astray by evil companions. It was a case 
of kindness, and Heaven knew that he had a call 
to be kind to others who fell, he who had fallen so 
grievously, and yet paid not the penalty for his 
fall! 

He walked slowly and thoughtfully downstairs, 
got into the hansom at the door, called out the 
address of his destination, and was driven rapidly 
off, with a friendly wave of the hand to his secretary 
on the steps. 


194 


THE SILVER KING 


Wilfred Denver’s mind would have been far less 
at ease than it was had he noticed a man watching 
his departure from a little distance across the way. 
It was Sam Baxter. The detective had come out of 
^‘John Franklin’s” house with a puzzled face, 
cudgelling his memory to find why the owner’s 
countenance had seemed familiar to him. Profes- 
sionally he was a collector of men’s faces, and it 
worried him not to be able to label even one which 
he had seen before. He sauntered across the road 
as he left the house, and stopped a short way down 
the street, just out of observation of the door. He 
was rewarded by seeing someone come out and 
whistle for a cab. He stayed to see Frank- 

lin” emerge from the house, step into the hansom, 
and drive past him on the way. 

‘'Good Heavens!” he cried suddenly. “That’s 
the very man, I believe. Derby Day four years 
ago — the ‘Wheatsheaf at Clerkenwell — the fellow 
with the revolver! Here’s a find! The hair’s 
turned grey, but the face is the same. I knew it! 
I knew I’d had the man through my hands some- 
where. John Franklin, millionaire and philan- 
thropist! John Franklin, the Silver King— an 
unhung murderer! By Jove, what a catch for 
me!” 

With these pregnant words the astute Sam 
Baxter jotted down one or two notes in his 


THE SILVER KING 


195 


capacious notebook and went quickly away from 
the scene of his momentous discovery. 

About an hour later Denver returned and was 
approached by a man-servant. 

‘There's a queer old party called to see you, 
sir," said the man. “He looked so odd I didn't 
know whether to let him in ; but he insisted that you 
knew him and wished to see him, so I let him wait. 
I hope I did right, sir." 

“What name did he give?" asked Denver. 

“Jaikes, sir," replied the man. “I hope I did 
right " 

“Yes, ,yes, quite right," cried Denver eagerly. 
“I want to see him at once. Bring him up to my 
private sitting-room." 

Reassured by his master's evident eagerness, the 
man retired, and in a moment came back, escorting 
poor old Jaikes, whose attire was a collection of 
ends and oddities which might well have deterred 
any well-trained servant. 

Almost before the door had closed behind the 
footman Jaikes came running eagerly towards 

Denver. “Oh, Master Will, Master Will " 

he began, then stopped in horror at his indis- 
cretion! Had the man heard? Had his foolish 
forgetfulness perhaps started a train of curiosity 
ending in suspicion and even perhaps in 

The thought was more than he could endure, and 


196 


THE SILVER KING 


he almost burst into tears with penitence and 
remorse. 

But Denver reassured him. '‘Never mind, 
Jaikes,” he said, “the man didn’t hear. But I 
don’t think we’ll try the experiment again. Master 
Will is dead; dead and buried. We must not 
revive him.” He sighed heavily and passed 
his hand across his brow, then collected himself 
with a start. “But now for something pleasanter, 
Jaikes,” he exclaimed; “something in which you 
can help me once again. I have thought out the 
scheme by which I can send my wife and my 
children back to the Grange; and I have already 
seen my men of business about the preliminaries. 
I am going to buy it in your name and give you a 
sum sufficient for your and their needs. You shall 
all live there together and be happy.” 

“But,” expostulated the astonished Jaikes, 
“how can I go a-buying Granges ?” 

“There is no other way,” replied Denver. “I 
cannot do it myself : how can I without revealing 
that existence which I must for ever keep secret? 
Nobody else can do it. For you it will be easy.” 

“I’m blessed if I can see how,” grumbled the 
perplexed Jaikes. “My savin’s being notoriously 
insufficient.” 

“We must invent a plausible reason,” said 
Denver, smiling in spite of himself at the old 
fellow’s anxiety and embarrassment. 


THE SILVER KING 


197 


“That’s all very well, Master Will — oh! I mean 
Mr. Franklin,” responded the agonised Jaikes. 
“O ! what have I said ?” 

“Never mind,” said Denver. “Nobody can 
hear in this room. But now listen to me.” 

Jaikes sat down abruptly, all agog with a mixture 
of joy, wonder, and anxiety. 

“You had an old uncle,” proceeded Denver. 

“Never in my life,” protested Jaikes. 

“Don’t interrupt, Jaikes; it is necessary for you 
to have had an old uncle.” 

“Very well,” murmured the old man submis- 
sively. ^ 

“Your old uncle went abroad,” continued 
Denver, “and made a fortune. His name was 
Samuel, and he died recently and left you all his 
money. You buy the Grange with some of this 
money, and you go and live there with Nelly and 
the children.” 

“God bless you!” cried Jaikes; “that’ll do it.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


‘‘Fancy Dan’l Jaikes coming and buying the 
Grange and being Lord of the Manor, and bring- 
ing Miss Nelly back to live in it!’’ 

The speaker was a weather-beaten old dame who, 
with several companions of her own sex and an 
equal number of old men, had gathered at the 
gates of the park, and before entering was enjoying 
a little gossip on the situation of affairs. 

One of the old men took up the tale. 

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Gammage,” he croaked, 
“and Dan’l Jaikes ’pears rather high and mighty 
now he’s come into his fortune.” 

“Well, I ain’t going to curtsy to him,” said a 
vivacious and buxom lady with iron-grey curls, 
which trembled as she spoke. “Me and Dan’l 
Jaikes was brought up together, girl and boy; I 
ain’t going to curtsy to him. I’m going to shake 
hands with him. Why, who knows what might 
happen, now Dan’l is master of the Grange !” 

The old dame who had started the conversation 
looked at her a little sourly. “I can’t say. 
Tabby,” she remarked, “as Muster Jaikes seems 
partic’ler smit with you.” 


198 


THE SILVER KING 


199 


^‘Aye, aye, Tabby,” chimed in a wheezy voice, 
‘‘youVe had three husbands and buried ’em all. 
You let well alone.” 

The owner of the voice was surely the ‘^oldest 
inhabitant,” without whom and the local idiot no 
English village is complete. Who else would have 
dared to wear his old-fashioned smock in these 
days of shoddy? Who else, too, being a mere 
man, could have ventured to comment on the 
matrimonial future of the redoubtable Tabitha 
Owen, thrice widowed and still insatiate? Tabitha 
gave him an indignant glare, but held her 
peace. 

The oldest inhabitant turned towards Mrs. 
Gammage. 

‘T can’t make out,” he wheezed, ^‘who this 
’ere Uncle Samiwell was as has died and left Dan’l 
Jaikes all his money.” 

*‘Ah, and I ain’t heered on no Uncle Samiwell 
neither!” agreed Mrs. Gammage. “But come on, 
folks ; we’d best be going in.” 

The old people trooped in, nothing loath. Was 
not this the day of the dinner to the village elders, 
to celebrate the home-coming of Mrs. Denver, 
whom, as little Nelly Hathaway, they could all 
remember growing up to womanhood at the 
Grange, and whose wedding to young Squire 
Denver still stood out as a red-letter day in their 
calendar? It passed their comprehensions how 


200 


THE SILVER KING 


Daniel Jaikes — whom they had all known so well 
as boy and man — could suddenly acquire a deceased 
Uncle Samuel of fabulous wealth, and be in a 
position to buy the old Grange, and install there, 
in the home of her fathers, their beloved ‘‘Miss 
Nelly.” But there it was; and here, soon, would 
be the dinner, to satisfy at once their doubts and 
their appetites. 

A flutter of excitement passed through their 
breasts as they descried Daniel Jaikes himself 
crossing the lawn to meet them. The old man’s 
attire presented a curious mixture of the country 
gentleman and the butler, as though he had been 
unable to shake off old associations in his new- 
found splendour. But the rustics were not critical 
of his dress. The old dames, with the exception 
of Tabitha, curtsied, and their male companions 
were duly respectful as the Lord of the Manor 
approached them. 

Jaikes, in his turn, greeted them genially enough, 
if with some assumption of authority. He dodged 
Tabitha’s outstretched hand, and addressed him- 
self generally to the group. 

“Yes, Miss Nelly’s all right, thank you; but 
your dinner ain’t quite ready yet. You can wait 
here on the lawn a few minutes; and mind you 
all behaves yourselves. Now, Tabby!” he called 
sharply to the widow who, after the slighting of 
her hand, had turned her attention to a rose-bush. 


THE SILVER KING 


201 


‘‘you leave them flowers alone. I’ll go and tell 
Mrs. Denver you have arrove.” 

But Nelly came out of the house as he spoke, 
and advanced towards her visitors, smiling. A 
wonderful change had taken place in her since the 
day when we last saw her in the wretched cottage, 
fighting against starvation. Her pallor and sharp 
lines of face and body were gone, yielding once 
more to the colour and softness of her young 
womanhood. Gone, too, were her poor rags which 
had sheltered her so ill against the cold. She was 
still dressed in the mourning black which she had 
worn ever since that awful day four years ago when 
she learnt she was a widow. But her attire, if 
sombre, was attractive. 

“Well, so you have come, all of you. That’s 
right,” she said, smiling on the little group. She 
greeted them one by one, in turn. “And how do 
you do, all of you?” 

Tabitha Owen made herself spokeswoman for 
her shyer companions. “We’re all well and 
hearty, thanking you kindly, ma’am,” she replied, 
her skirts rustling with importance and her curls 
all nodding. “And we be mortal glad to see you 
back at the Grange again, ain’t we. Gaffer Pottle?” 

She turned towards the oldest inhabitant for 
confirmation. 

“Aye,” quavered that worthy. “Us didn’t like 


THE SILVER KING 




they folk as came here when you and Muster 
Denver left.” 

‘They was mean, they was,” Mrs. Gammage 
joined in. 

“No beef and coals at Christmas,” said Tabitha 
Owen impressively; “no pea-soup, no blankets, no 
flannel petticoats, no nothing !” 

Nelly found it hard to compose her face to the 
becoming gravity as she listened to this dreadful 
catalogue of wants. Her eyes twinkled a little as 
she looked at the vivacious triple widow. But the 
other villagers nodded their heads approvingly, and 
Gaffer Pottle hastened to have his say. 

“Aye, us knowed when you came back. Miss 
Nelly,” he quavered, “there'd be plenty for every- 
body.” 

’“I hope so,” Nelly answered simply. “Yoii 
see, my friends, I have known what it is to be poor 
myself; known it only too well! Since I left you 
I have heard my children cry for bread. Indeed, 
if it were not for the kindness of my old friend 
here ” 

Her glanr^ turned affectionately upon Jaikes as 
she spoke, but the old man was looking very 
uncomfor able, and his ruddy face grew ruddier 
than ever as he held up a deprecating hand, and 
grunted out: “Yes, yes, missus; we'll drop the 
subject, if you please.” 

“No, indeed we will not!” cried Nelly. “You 


THE SILVER KING 


203 


know I owe everything to you. Now, go and have 
your dinner, all of you good people. You will find 
it ready waiting for you in the hall ; and remember 
it is Jaikes who provides it for you, not I. First 
give thanks to the Giver of all good things, and 
then thank our dear old Jaikes.” 

‘‘Oh, no, no,” Jaikes broke in irritably; “I 
won’t be thanked!” 

To hide his confusion the old man bustled round 
the villagers like a sheep-dog rounding up his 
flock. “Be off, you old varmints; be off!” he 
called, and, regardless of their astonishment, he 
began to drive them over the lawn towards the 
house. Only Tabitha Owen managed to break 
away for one moment, to proffer a request for “a 
new gownd, ’cos my best’s wore out.” Then she 
too was relentlessly bustled along with the rest and 
out of sight. 

Nelly sank down upon a garden seat, watching 
his manoeuvres with an indulgent eye. How could 
she be otherwise than indulgent towards the eccen- 
tricities of the good old man who had clung to her 
all through the black times of poverty and hunger, 
and now had devoted his new-found wealth to 
making her as it were mistress once more in the 
home of her girlhood, the home where she had 
spent her first years of married life ? She gave him 
a smile as he hastened back to her, flushed with his 
exertions in driving his flock into the hall. 


204 


THE SILVER KING 


He was the first to speak. 

‘'That old hussy, TabithaT’ he exclaimed. 
“You mustn’t let her impose upon you, missus.” 

“Ah, Jaikes,” she answered, with a little shake 
of her head at him ; “it is not for me, it is for you 
to say. You are master here.” 

“Yes, yes,” he stammered; “of course ... so 
I am ... I forgot that. Still, you know, missus, 
all this money is, as you may say, yours.” 

His eyes wandered about uneasily, resting any- 
where but on the face of his mistress. She looked 
a little puzzled as she asked him: “Mine, Jaikes?” 

“Yes,” he returned, still avoiding her face. 
“You see, my Uncle Samuel left particular in- 
structions in his will . . . that you . . . that 

I Well, never mind my Uncle Samuel,” he 

said desperately; “we’ll drop the subject. But 
ain’t you happy now you’re back in your old 
home, missus?” 

Nelly sighed. “Yes, Jaikes; I am happy.” 

He did not appear convinced. His eyes, now 
that the apparently unpleasant subject of Uncle 
Samuel had been dropped, sought her face and 
rested on it rather wistfully. 

“Quite happy, missus?” he inquired. 

“Yes, Jaikes; far happier than I ever hoped 
to be.” 

But she could not repress another sigh. 

“There is summat, I can see!” he cried. 


THE SILVER KING 205 


‘‘Summat that you miss, now, ain’t there? What 
is it, missus? I’ve ordered them to lay out the 
garding just as it used to be, and to plant a 
new chestnut tree where the old ’un was blown 

down ” 

‘‘It isn’t that, Jaikes.” 

“The old fish-pond as the last folks filled up, 
then? I’ll have it dug out again.” 

“Ah, no; don’t trouble yourself about that.” 
“Then what is it, missus? You shall have it, 
if it costs a mint of money.” 

Nelly looked at him sorrowfully. “Can’t you 
see what it is, Jaikes?” she asked. “I am back 
in my old home without the man who made all 
about it dear to me — without my Will!” The 
tears no longer could be kept back. “Oh, I love 
him still,” she went on; “I love him as much 
to-day as I did the day when I married him in the 
church down in the village there. It was under 
this very tree where we are now that I promised to 
be his wife. Oh, Jaikes, I remember it all as if 
it were yesterday. Everything here, every tree 
in the garden, every brick in the house, every 
little nook and corner brings back to me his dear, 
handsome face . . . until I can sometimes hardly 
stop myself from running through the grounds 
and fields, calling: ‘Will, Will, come back to me, 
if it be only for a minute I’ ” 

Jaikes gazed at her, speechless, his wrinkled old 


206 


THE SILVER KING 


face twitching with an agony of impotence. She 
rose from the rustic seat. 

‘‘Now you know what it is I miss in my old 
home, Jaikes,’’ she said in broken tones : “my 
husband's love — and you cannot give that back 
to me^ — no, never !" 

He made as though to speak, then restrained 
himself and silently let her pass and disappear 
into the house. 

Poor old Jaikes remained lost in thought: 
sympathy for his beloved mistress, rejoicing at the 
letter he had sent to Denver bidding him come 
and disclose himself, apprehension at the possible 
results of this bold step; all these combined to 
worry the faithful old fellow. 

He stood there for many minutes, his mind far 
from all ideas of time and place, busied only with 
efforts to promote the happiness of those he loved. 
At last he began to return to the world again. 
“There's nothing like it," he said aloud, “nothing 
like a husband's love." 

“How glad I am to hear you say that," said the 
harsh voice of Tabitha. 

The poor old nian came back to earth with a 
shock, and found himself confronted by the triple 
widow, who wore an air of especial determination. 

“What, back again. Tabby?" he ejaculated 
miserably. 

“Yes," cooed the widow, “I wanted to tell you 


THE SILVER KING 


207 


how glad I am to see you back again. Ain't 
you glad to be back again among all your old 
friends ?" 

‘Why, yes," said the unlucky man, ^^some of 
them." 

“Don’t you remember the old days when we 
used to go cowslipping together?" 

“Never, Tabby; I never went cowslipping with 
you” 

“Oh, yes, you did. And our games at hide 
and seek." 

“Yes. I used to hide and you used to try and 
catch me! Same as you’re a-doing now," added 
Jaikes valiantly. 

“Oh, don’t,’’ pursued the undaunted Tabitha. 
“You don’t know how fond I’ve always been of 
you. And now that you’re growing old and I’m 
growing old, how nice it would be to end our days 
together." 

“/ ain’t a-going to end my days yet," countered 
Jaikes stoutly, “neither singly nor together. End 
your own when you like." 

“But you’ve never been married. Dan’l, you 
don’t know what happiness is." 

“You have — > three times, you old three 
decker.’’ 

“And the best of wives I’ve made; not but what 
men is very trying. And I should make a better 


208 


THE SILVER KING 


wife now than ever,’’ insinuated the wheedler, 
trying to take his arm. 

‘‘Do I take it,” said the harassed Jaikes, ‘'that 
you are proposing to me?” 

“Oh, don’t,” cooed the three decker. 

“Get back to your dinner,” bellowed the now 
furious Jaikes, “you old Mormon; you Bluebeard 
in petticoats; you old female Henry the Eighth. 
You old ” 

But Tabitha waited to hear no more; she fled, 
leaving Jaikes perspiring with a mixture of rage 
and misgiving. 

“Duty is duty and likewise a pleasure,” he 
exclaimed, mopping his brow, “but this here 
Tabby, she’s pufflck hell.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


Two days after the dinner to the old villagers to 
celebrate the home-coming to Gardenhurst Grange 
of Nelly Denver, Daniel Jaikes was up betimes and 
on his way down the long garden, hobbling as fast 
as his old legs would carry him. There was a spruce- 
ness about his clothes which seemed to argue 
expectation of a great event, and there was actually 
a sprig of scarlet geranium in his buttonhole. 
Yet, as he crossed the turf, there was rather a 
troubled look in his face, which clashed with the 
cheerfulness of his attire. 

And in truth Daniel Jaikes was in trouble, for 
two reasons. The first was the lady whom in his 
mind he called ‘‘that dratted Tabby.” Ever since 
he had come back to Gardenhurst with his supposed 
legacy from Uncle Samuel, the triple widow had 
pursued him relentlessly, reminding him, as two 
days before, of the times when, as girl and boy, 
they had gone courtshipping together — though, for 
the life of him, he could remember no court- 
shipping — and pointing out to him on every 
possible occasion that he was getting old — as if 
she were not getting old, too, and precious ugly 
209 


^10 


THE SILVER KING 


into the bargain; and worst of all, constantly- 
suggesting that if he wanted a wife, he must surely 
know where to look. So far he had successfully 
escaped her, as in the garden two days ago, or by 
flight. But he felt these rearguard actions to be 
wearing out his strength, and he viewed with dread 
the possibility of the day coming when he would 
be surrounded and forced to capitulate. 

And the second reason was a man. Not a real 
man, it was true, but a very real terror nevertheless. 
How he groaned when he thought of the day when, 
to gratify Master Will’s desire to place his wife 
and children in the midst of luxury, without their 
knowing the true source of the money, he had art- 
fully invented “Uncle Samuel”! And now Uncle 
Samuel had involved him in a maze of lies, through 
which he floundered daily more helplessly, deceiv- 
ing, or trying to deceive, her whom he loved best 
in the world, his dear “missus.” Oh, drat Uncle 
Samuel! Drat Uncle Samuel and drat Tabby! 

As he passed out through the postern gate of 
the garden, however, and into the lane leading 
to the railway station, Jaikes’s face brightened'. 
Master Will was coming, in answer to his urgent 
letter two nights ago, and he would have a good 
try to persuade him to kill “Uncle Samuel,” and 
make himself known in his true colours to his wife. 

“Morning!” he said to the inspector as he 
entered the station. “London train nearly due?” 


THE SILVER KING 




“Just coming, Mr Jaikes,’’ replied the official, 
touching his cap. 

The old man stood on the platform watching the 
train steam in, and trotted forward joyfully as he 
saw a tall form emerge from one of the carriages. 

“Master Will!” he cried. 

“Well, Jaikes, here I am, you see,” replied 
Denver, grasping his hand. “Is all safe? Dare 
I go near the Grange?” 

“Yes; come along. Master Will. It’s early 
yet, and they wasn’t up when I left They’ll be 
having breakfast soon.” 

Denver walked with the old man along the lane. 

“And how is she?” he asked. “Is she quite 
well, and happy? — ^and the children?” 

“Yes, all quite well,” Jaikes assured him. 
“But oh. Master Will, I’m so glad you’ve come. 
I had to write to you. I can’t hold out much 
longer. That Uncle Samuel has got me into a 
dreadful mess. How I wish as we’d never invented 
him! And then there’s that money you sent her 
anonymously from America.” 

Denver’s eyes twinkled as he asked what was 
the matter with that. 

“Well, it didn’t turn up while we was starving; 
but now we’re rolling in money and it’s a nuisance, 
it turns up as bold as brass, and I can’t explain to 
her why it comes. Oh, Master Will,” he implored 


THE SILVER KING 




suddenly, ‘^don^t hide it from her no longer. Tell 
her you're alive." 

Denver could see the old man's deep earnestness, 
but he shook his head. 

“Yes, do. Master Will. You wait here^ — I'll 
fetch her." 

They were inside the garden gate, and Jaikes 
had already started to walk towards the Grange. 
But Denver caught him in a few rapid strides, and 
detained him. 

“Stop, Jaikes; you mustn't go," he said 
firmly. 

Jaikes looked at him with desperation in his 
eyes. 

“Master Will, when you brought her back and 
spent all that money to make the old place just 
like it used to be when she was a girl, you thoughf 
you was going to make her happy, didn't you?" 

“And have I not made her happy? What more 
can I do?" 

“Why, sir, don't you see" — the answer came 
slowly and rather reluctantly — “home ain't four 
walls and the ceiling and the furniture. Home's 
the place where them as loves us is. And it was 
you what made this place home for her, and she's 
breaking her heart because it's her home no 
longer." 

Denver's face grew sad as he listened, but he 
shook his head again. 


THE SILVER KING 


213 


‘‘Jaikes/’ he replied, “I will tell you why my 
wife must not know that I am alive. And when I 
have told you, you must never speak of this again. 
Last night I went down to the river, to a place 

owned by that man Coombe ’’ 

“What!” ejaculated the old man, “the party 
as was going to turn the missus out?” 

“Yes. Fve been following him up for the last 
six months — ever since I recognised him as the 
man who showed me into Geoffrey Ware’s rooms 
that night. Just as drowning men catch at straws, 
so I have caught at the straw of a hope that I might 
find out something, I don’t know what — something 
that might give me a right to believe that I did not 
shed that man’s blood.” 

Jaikes gazed at him eagerly. “Ah, how happy 
it would make the missus !” he cried. 

“And so, night after night,” pursued Denver, 
“I go to that place, and watch and watch and 
watch. I’ve tried to get in, but all in vain; it’s a 
hopeless task. Well, when I got back last night 
to Kensington, I found your letter waiting for me, 
begging me to let her know that I was alive. I 
read your letter again and again, and the more I 
tried to persuade myself that for her sake I must 
keep silence, the more my heart cried out : ‘I must 
have her! I will have her! If I die for it, she 
shall be my own again !’ ” 

He paused and sighed, and then went on : 


214 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘And so I thought I would take her out to 
Nevada, to the city I built myself, where every 
man would shed his blood for me and every child 
is taught to reverence the name of John Franklin. 
I spent half the night planning a happy future 
there with her and my children, free from the past, 
safe, honoured, at peace with ourselves and all 
the world. Oh, Jaikes, I was so happy, I couldn’t 
sleep for the joy of it; and Vv^hen at last I put my 
head on my pillow, my one thought was: ‘To- 
morrow I will tell her I am alive, to-morrow I will 
take her in my arms and call her my wife again!’ ” 

“And so you shall. Master Will; so you shall!” 
exclaimed the old man excitedly. “Let me go now 
and fetch her to you.” 

A look in his master’s eyes arrested him. There 
was something stern and terrible in them, which 
checked all inclination to joy. Denver’s voice, too, 
was quite different when he spoke again — low and 
insistent as he began, then gradually rising and 
gathering volume as he went on. 

“I fell asleep, Jaikes,” he said. “Do you know 
what a murderer’s sleep is? It’s the waking time 
of conscience, the whipping-post she ties him to 
while she lashes and stings his poor, helpless, 
guilty soul! Sleep! It’s a bed of spikes and 
harrows! It’s a precipice over which he falls 
sheer upon the jags and forks of memory! It’s a 
torchlight procession of devils, raking out every 


THE SILVER KING 


215 


infernal sewer and cranny of his brain! Ifs ten 
thousand mirrors dangling round him to picture 
and re-picture to him nothing but himself. Sleep! 
Oh, God, there is no hell like the murderer’s sleep ! 
That’s what my sleep has been these four years 
past. I fell asleep last night, and I dreamed that 
we were over in Nevada, and we were seatM on 
a throne, she and I ; and it was in a great hall of 
justice, and a man was brought before me charged, 
with a crime, and, just as I opened my mouth 
to pronounce sentence upon him, Geoffrey Ware 
came up out of his grave, with his eyes staring, 
staring, staring — as they stared at me on that night, 
and as they will stare at me till I die. And he 
said: ‘Come down! Come down, you whited 

sepulchre! How dare you sit in that place to 
judge men?’ And he leapt up in his grave — close 
to the throne where I was — and seized me by the 
throat and dragged me down; and we struggled 
and fought like wild beasts — we seemed to be 
fighting for years — and at last I mastered him, and 
held him down, and would not let him stir. And 
then I saw a hand coming out of the sky — a long, 
bony hand, with no flesh on it and nails like 
eagles’ claws — and it came slowly — out of the sky, 
reaching for miles, it seemed; slowly, slowly, it 
reached down to the very place where I was, and it 
fastened on my heart, and it took me and set me 
in the justice hall, in the prisoner’s dock. And 


216 


THE SILVER KING 


when I looked at my judge, it was Geoffrey Ware! 
And I cried out for mercy, but there was none! 
And the hand gripped me again, as a hawk grips 
a wren, and set me on the gallows. And I felt the 
plank fall beneath my feet, and I dropped . . . 
dropped . . . dropped . . . and I awoke!” 

Jaikes had watched Denver through his long 
narration with some such feelings as we must 
imagine to be those of the small hart which sees 
the cobra swaying before it in the jungle, threaten- 
ing doom. At first he made some feeble, depre- 
cating movements with his hands, then slowly 
paralysis crept over his limbs, and he seemed 
rooted to the ground, unable to stir, to speak, to 
breathe. Denver appeared to him to fade away, 
and in his place there was nothing but the fearful 
dream, materialised, ghastly, menacing. At last, 
when the words ceased, he too seemed to awake — 
to awake to a state of consciousness even more 
intolerable than his former stupor. 

'Tor mercy’s sake, Master Will ” he 

shrieked. 

Denver took up the tale in accents of hopeless 
sorrow. 

"Then I knew,” he said, "that the dream was 
sent as a message to tell me that, though I might 
fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, as high as 
the stars above or as deep as the deepest seas below, 


THE SILVER KING 


SIT 


there could be no hiding-place for me, no rest, no 
hope, no shelter, no escape!’^ 

The two men stood face to face — Denver utterly 
exhausted and shaking with sobs, Jaikes voiceless 
before a grief which he could do nothing to 
assuage. How long they stood there neither could 
have told. They were brought back to themselves 
by a shrill little call. 

‘‘Jaikes r’ 

The old man started nervously, and Denver 
turned away his ravaged face as Cissy came 
running across the grass towards them. 

“Why, Jaikes,’' she said, “who’s this?” 

Denver looked round, bravely struggling to 
compose his features into a smile of recognition. 

“Oh, it’s you!” cried the little girl delightedly. 
“You’ve come to see us in our new home! But 
you are crying! What’s the matter? Are you 
unhappy ?” 

The father’s heart beat wildly in his breast. He 
put his arms round the frail little form (but not so 
frail now, thank Heaven! as when his arms were 
round it last) and gave her a passionate kiss. 

“Not now. Cissy,” he said: “not now that you 
are here.” 

She turned round to Jaikes wonderingly. “Do 
you know the kind gentleman, too?” she asked. 
“You never told me.” 


218 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘No, missy, no,” said the old man, seeking his 
master’s eye in an agony of helplessness. 

But Denver did not seem to see him, so engrossed 
was he with his daughter. Fortunately, Cissy did 
not trouble her head to explain how it was she found 
Jaikes and her kind friend together if they were 
unacquainted. She left Jaikes to ramble discon- 
solately away, and addressed herself eagerly to 
Denver again. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she assured him. 
“You shall come and live with us. Will 
you?” 

“What would you do with me?” questioned 
Denver, gravely smiling. 

“Why, you should play with Ned and me. 
We’ve got a rocking-horse, and soldiers, and lots 
of things. Do stay, will you ? Do ! do !” 

“And your mother?” He looked at her 
.earnestly, as he waited for her to reply. 

“Oh, I know she’d be glad to have you. She’s 
always talking about you, and wondering who you 
are. Who are you?” she concluded abruptly, 
gazing up at him with those clear child’s eyes 
of hers which seemed to pierce him to the 
heart. 

“Who am I ?” he stammered. 

“Yes, tell me— tell me true!” 

“Well, I’m ... a king.” 

“But what king are you?” she insisted. 


THE SILVER KING 


219 


‘‘I’m the Silver King. At least, that’s what 
men call me,” he explained, seeing the marvel 
grow in her eyes. “But I must be going. Cissy. 
We must say good-bye.” 

It was hard to tear himself away, but the chances 
of discovery were too great should he remain near 
the Grange. Perhaps already he had stayed too 
long for his safety — and theirs. He bent over the 
little girl and kissed her fondly. She returned the 
kisses, but caught at his hand. “No, really you 
mustn’t go,” she protested. “Oh, mamma does 
want to see you so badly. Do just wait here while 
I go and fetch her.” 

She released his hand and, throwing him one 
imploring glance, she sped off in the direction of 
the house. 

Denver glanced at his watch and called to Jaikes, 
who was still rambling about with his face the 
picture of woe. 

“Jaikes, I’m off,” said his master. 

“Master Will, won’t you stay?” 

“No, Jaikes, no,” answered Denver resolutely. 
“Let me go! Not a word, for her sake. Let me 
go!" 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Denver hastened, with never a look back, down 
the lane, into the village street, and through the 
open doorway on to the platform of the little 
station. Ten minutes to wait before the next train 
to London! He frowned. Yet, despite his impa- 
tience to be off, he could not help smiling the next 
minute as he thought of his precipitate flight from 
the Grange. For the second time in his life he was 
running away from detectives — though to-day it 
was a very different sort of detective from Mr. 
Samuel Baxter of Scotland Yard. Poor Nelly! 
It cut him to the heart to picture her following the 
excited Cissy into the garden, to find nobody there. 
What would she suspect? he wondered. Hardly 
the truth, at all events, now that for four years she 
had counted him dead. From what Jaikes had 
said it was clear she had no suspicion of the 
possibility of his existence. Still, it was foolish, 
most foolish and criminal of him to have acceded 
to the old man’s request that he should come down 
to the Grange, when the dangers of detection were 
so great. Even here at the railway station he was 
not safe. 


220 


THE SILVER KING 


221 


Ah, here was the train at last! He stepped 
hurriedly into an empty carriage, the whistle blew, 
and Denver actually heaved a sigh of relief as the 
train steamed off for London, bearing him away 
from all that was dearest to him. 

But now we must return to the Grange and see 
what Wilfred Denver could not see, the conse- 
quences of the visit which in his thoughts he had 
denounced as so foolish. 

Nelly was sitting at the breakfast-table, seeing 
that Ned finished his morning meal, when the door 
burst open and Cissy danced into the room, breath- 
less, her eyes bright, her whole face aglow. 

‘‘Mamma, mamma she shouted, “my kind 
gentleman’s here in the garden. Come quick!” 

Nelly sprang up from the table. “Ned, sit still 
and finish your breakfast,” she paused to say, and 
then, without another word, sped after Cissy out 
of the room. 

And so, hardly had Cissy’s “kind gentleman” 
disappeared from the garden when the little girl 
came running, followed by her mother. 

“Mamma, mamma,” she called, “come on ! 
Make haste!” But she stopped in astonishment. 
There was no one about except Jaikes. “Where 
is he gone, Jaikes?” she demanded. 

Jaikes glanced about him stupidly, without a 
word, until Nelly broke inr 


222 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Oh, Jaikes, where is he?” 

“Where’s who, missus?” he asked in turn. 

“Why, the gentleman who was here, who gave 
the purse to Cissy that day ?” 

The old man was in the last ditch, fighting 
desperately. “Oh yes, missus,” he admitted ; “there 
was a gentleman here, but ... he was rather 
pressed for time and ... he had to go ... to 
... to catch his train.” 

“Why did you let him go, Jaikes?” Nelly ex- 
claimed, looking at him in amazement. “How could 
you, when you knew how much I wanted to thank 
him?” 

He could not remember her ever speaking to him 
so angrily before. He blinked, and scratched his 
head. His inventive faculty was exhausted, and he 
could think of nothing to say. 

Nelly walked up to the postern gate. “He can’t 
have gone far,” she said. “I’ll go after him.” 

Jaikes’ s power of speech returned and he stepped 
forward to the gate. 

“No, don’t you go, missus — not like that, with- 
out your hat nor nothing. Don’t you go. I’ll run 
after him and bring him back. I shall catch him 
afore he gets to the station.” 

Nelly suffered him to go through the gate and 
watched him start off at a trot down the lane. She 
turned towards the house with a puzzled expression 
on her face. It was all very mysterious, and she 


THE SILVER KING 


223 


could not make out what any of it meant. Jaikes 
was so odd in his behaviour, and the stranger — 
well, it was difficult to know what to think about 
him. He had befriended her in poverty, and here 
he was still watching over her in riches. She put 
her arm round Cissy’s neck and walked back with 
her towards the house. 

“Cissy,” she asked, “what was the gentleman 
like?” 

“Oh, he was a very nice old gentleman,” the little 
girl answered. 

“Old?” 

“Oh, yes, his hair was nearly white. I suppose 
that’s why they call him the Silver King. And 
when I first came into the garden, he was crying 
ever so much.” . 

“Crying!” asked Nelly. “Why should he 
cry ?” 

The affair grew more mysterious every minute. 
Of course, there was one explanation which would 
fit in with all the circumstances — ^but that was 
absurd, monstrous, irrational. Yet she could feel 
her own heart beating wildly at the thought, and 
her knees began to tremble under her. She stopped 
by the rustic seat on the lawn and sank into it. 
“Cissy, dear,” she asked, “was the gentleman at all 
like this?” 

She pulled out and opened a little gold locket 


224! 


THE SILVER KING 


which always hung from a chain about her neck 
beneath her dress, and showed it to the child. 

‘‘Why, that’s my father’s likeness, you always 
told me, mamma,” Cissy cried. 

“Yes. Was the gentleman like that?” 

“Oh, no, mamma,” was the decided answer. 
“The Silver King’s hair is nearly white, I tell 
you.” 

“But the face. Cissy? The face?” 

The child shook her head. “No; my father’s 
face is quite young and happy, and the Silver 
King’s is sad and old. No, he isn’t a bit like 
that.” 

Nelly closed the locket with a sigh and put it 
back in its place. Of course she had known well 
enough before she had asked the question that 
Cissy’s answer would be “No,” and she could not 
tell what had prompted her to ask it. Why waste 
time in idle dreams, that only brought more sorrow 
to her heart ? 

But the mystery remained unexplained. And 
here, to make it deeper, came Jaikes back through 
the gate alone. That he had been running was ob- 
vious from the way in which he puffed and blew, 
and from the deepened crimson of his cheeks. Per- 
haps it was because he had been running, also, that 
he spoke in so confused a manner as he came up 
across the lawn. 

“Couldn’t catch him, missus,” he began. 


THE SILVER KING 


225 


Nelly gazed at him with reproachful eyes, be- 
neath whose glance he fidgeted uneasily. 

“Followed him right up to the station, but the 
train had just started,’’ he protested. 

Alas for poor Jaikes! Almost at that very mo- 
ment a faint whistle broke on their ears from be- 
yond the lane. Cissy cried at him indignantly: 

“Oh, Jaikes, that is a story! That’s the whistle; 
the train’s only just starting. And there, you can 
see the smoke,” she added, pointing over the trees 
in the direction of the railway. 

Could the lawn have opened up and swallowed 
him bodily, Jaikes would certainly have welcomed 
the catastrophe with a grateful heart. But, as na- 
ture refused to come to his aid with an earthquake, 
he remained standing shamefacedly before his mis- 
tress and the child, a quaint, pathetic figure of the 
good man discovered in a foolish lie. 

Nelly Denver rose from the seat and came up to 
him, forcing him to look her in the face. 

“Why are you playing me false?” she cried 
passionately. “Why don’t you tell me the 
truth?” 

She waited for an answer, but none came. Jaikes 
seemed utterly unable to get out a word. Only his 
eyes made any defence, and they were those of a 
dog that has been whipped. 

“Who is this man?” Nelly went on. “This uncle 
of yours who died; this gentleman who gave Cissy 


226 


THE SILVER KING 


the purse last winter, and saved Ned’s life; this 
unknown friend who sent me all that money from 
America? Who is he ? You know, and I will make 
you tell me!” 

Jaikes swallowed a lump in his throat. “How 
should I know?” he blurted out at last. “That 
money from America came in letters with no name 
to ’em. I hates folks as sends anonymous letters. 
I’d string ’em up to the nearest lamp-post without 
judge or jury.” 

“Jaikes, I will take no more money from you, 
no more food, no more shelter, till I know where 
the money comes from. As destitute and helpless 
as we were before we came to the Grange, I and 
my children will leave it this very day, and go out 
again to starve, unless I know who it is who is 
loading us with all this wealth and kindness. Who 
is the man, Jaikes?” She stamped her foot as she 
spoke. “Who is he? Who is he, I say!” 

Jaikes’s hands went out in a gesture of despair. 
The game was up; he was done; and with a groan 
he resigned the useless struggle. “Oh, missus, 
carVt you guess ?” 

Nelly gazed at him with dilating eyes. A little 
quiver ran through her frame and her lips parted. 
Then she threw open her arms, and from her mouth 
the words poured out mixed with sobs. “Ah, I 
knew it! I knew it! He is alive! Take me to 
him! Make haste! I cannot wait a moment.” 


THE SILVER KING 


She started impetuously towards the house. 
Jaikes made no effort to restrain her. He too was 
weeping, weeping with joy, free at last from the 
burden which had weighed him down so heavily the 
past six months, free to rejoice with her in her glad- 
ness at recovering the one thing needed to complete 
her happiness. 

Cissy had run up to her mother, and her little 
brother joined them on the steps, gazing open- 
mouthed at a scene which he could not understand. 

Nelly Denver caught the two children to her in a 
long, passionate embrace. 

‘‘Ned! Cissy! Kiss me, my darlings, kiss me!” 
she cried. “Your father is alive!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


With his mind a mixture of hope and despair, 
which was at least a relief after the constant, un- 
changing horror of the last few years, Denver 
reached London. 

His carriage was waiting for him ; he got in and 
ordered the man to drive home. During the drive 
he sat wrapped in thoughts which would have been 
happier could he have known of the joy with which 
Jaikes’s revelation of his existence had been re- 
ceived. 

What a relief it would have been could he but 
have seen his wife’s radiant smile at the news, and 
heard her joyful cry to Cissy: ‘‘He is alive! Your 
father is alive!” 

But he sat in ignorance of this till the carriage 
stopped at his door.. He got out and went into his 
house. First he went to the room where his secre- 
tary worked. Since the eventful day when Baxter 
had called on his merciless errand, and Denver 
had shielded, protected, and pardoned him, Frank 
Selwyn, the secretary, had been a changed man. 
He had learned his lesson — never again would he 
even in thought commit an act of wrong. The 
228 


THE SILVER KING 


229 


helping hand had been extended to him in his 
sorest need, and he had grasped it, never to sink 
again. 

“I forgive you, Frank,” Denver had said; ‘‘nay, 
more, I trust you as before. All I ask of you is 
that in return you will give a helping hand to 
anyone in trouble should you have the chance.” 

With tears in his eyes Selwyn had promised. 

He now greeted Denver as he entered, and to- 
gether they went into various affairs of business, 
mainly charitable. Some time passed thus, then 
Denver suddenly glanced at his watch and jumped 
up in haste. 

“I must go, and at once,” he said. “Finish up 
this little matter and then you can go. You look 
tired,” he added kindly. 

“No, sir,” said Selwyn, with a look of doglike 
devotion, “I am never tired now, or worried — 
thanks to you.” 

“Thafs good,” said Denver lightly. “Good 
night, my boy,” and he turned and left the room. 

He went upstairs hurriedly into his bedroom, 
and his proceedings were, to say the least, very 
surprising. He divested himself of all his outer 
clothing and his boots, and, going to a big cup- 
board, produced from it a collection of filthy rags 
and a very shabby pair of boots. He dressed 
himself in the rags, and drew on the boots, then 
surveyed himself in a long mirror. He drew from 


230 


THE SILVER KING 


a pocket a wig and false beard of scrubby-looking, 
greyish hair, and adjusted them carefully before 
the glass. 

Even he, sombre man though he was, could not 
refrain from laughing at the grotesque scarecrow 
that presented itself to his gaze. Nothing could 
be less like the silver-haired dignity of John Frank- 
lin than was this apparition. Then he began to 
posture and mumble in a strange idiotic manner, 
bowing and scraping as he gabbled. 

^‘Oh, yes, me deaf Dicky! Me go fetch and 
carry ; me do what you say. Suppose you give me 
sixpence; me keep watch; me very useful fellow.’’ 

Apparently satisfied by this extraordinary per- 
formance, he took off the wig and beard, put on a 
somewhat worn though inconspicuous hat, and a 
very long, shabby, ulster, went out of the room, and 
quietly left the house. 

Ever since he had seen Eliah Coombe that snowy 
evening, and had heard those incomprehensible 
words: ''There may he some mistake” Denver 
had been fired by a new idea, which he dared not 
believe in, but which dazzled him by the wonder 
of its possibilities. 

What if Eliah Coombe held the key to some 
mystery, perhaps connected with his own fate? 
With infinite pains and difficulty he had succeeded 
in tracing Eliah to his queer haunt at the Rother- 
hithe wharf; but beyond this he could not get, 


THE SILVER KING 


S31 


nor could he find out anything more about these 
strange men. But he had evolved an idea which, 
given patience and fortune, gave promise of suc- 
cess : disguised as deaf Dicky, a hanger-on of weak 
intellect, he might drop on some clue. 

So almost nightly for the last few months had 
the millionaire disguised himself as on this evening, 
and left his palatial home for the squalors of 
Rotherhithe. 

This evening, then, he arrived there by a dreary 
succession of trains and omnibuses, went to an* 
evidently familiar dark corner, where he hung up 
his coat and put on the wig and beard, then shuffled 
out and hid behind some cases. Half an hour, an 
hour, two hours passed, and nothing happened. 
Denver commenced to despair. The evening was 
cold for the time of year; a drizzling rain was 
falling, and underfoot the ground was glistening 
and sloppy. The ragged clothes which helped to 
form his disguise afforded him little or no shelter 
from the elements, and at times he could not 
repress a shiver. But he dared not stir from his 
hiding-place nor attempt by swift movement to 
revive the circulation in his numbed limbs. A 
strange, inexplicable feeling had come to him, that 
on this night depended the result of all those 
months of weary waiting, planning, and watching; 
that now, at last. Fate — so slow, so merciless — was 
to yield up to him the secret of that never-to-be- 


232 


THE SILVER KING 


forgotten night four years ago, to put him in a 
position to establish before the eyes of all the world 
his innocence of the black crime which had been 
laid to his charge. Yet he could not but feel upon 
what a slight foundation his hopes were resting, 
and how the least slip upon his part might shatter 
the whole fabric; and, clenching his teeth, he 
waited on. 

At last the sound of a heavy footfall broke in 
upon the silence of the wharf. Drawing his rags 
closer round his shivering body, Denver peered out 
cautiously from the nook in which he had ensconced 
himself, and saw approaching a thick-set man, 
apparently of the artisan class, lurching heavily 
along, his hands thrust into the pockets of his cor- 
duroy trousers, his little, fierce eyes searching the 
misty gloom of the wharf. 

The man paused only a few yards from where 
Denver lay hid, and stared around him, growling 
to himself in an audible tone. 

“Curse Father Christmas,'' Denver could hear 
him say. “Is he going to turn up, or am I to be 
kept kicking round here all the blessed night?" 

Even as he spoke a lighter, softer step drew 
near, and out of the dimness came Eliah Coombe. 
Denver drew farther back into his nook as he 
recognised the old man, and a thrill ran through 
him. 

Coombe hastened forward as he caught sight of 


THE SILVER KING 


2SS 


the thick-set man’s lowering countenance. His 
voice was a little hoarse from the evening damp, 
a little breathless from his hurried walk, but as 
ever he was brimming over with benevolence and 
candour as he spoke. 

‘‘Cripps, my dear boy!” he cried, ‘‘I hope as 
I ain’t kept you waiting long?” 

He smiled widely and amiably, and held out a 
flabby white hand. But the other ignored the 
hand, and replied with surly anger: ‘‘Yes, you 
’ave,” he said; “you ’ave, and the next time, just 
you give me the straight tip, and I’ll go and get 
drunk instead of wasting my time waiting in the 
rain for you.” 

Mr. Coombe sniffed and apologetically wiped his 
nose, whose customary red was accentuated by the 
chill of the evening. 

“Where’s the Spider?” he said at last, as if to 
divert the conversation from the subject of his own 
remissness. 

“He’s been, and gone,” said Cripps. “He 
wanted to know why the blazes you hadn’t got 
somebody to look after this crib and let us in when 
we comes to tea with yer, instead of keepin’ us 
hanging about the place as if we was serspicious 
characters.” 

Coombe’ s blue eyes, after one swift glance at 
his confederate’s sullen face, wandered innocently 
round the wharf. 


234 


THE SILVER KING 


‘'I wish as I could get hold of a likely party/’ he 
murmured. 

“I thought you had got your eye on a 
man ?” 

‘‘So I had — little Johnny Piper, the very person 
for the job.” 

“Well, why didn’t you have him?” 

“He got time, last week — eighteen months,” 
sighed the old man. “You see, it’s no good having 
anybody here as ain’t got an unblemished character. 
We don’t want the blue-bottles to come sniffing 
round here, do we?” 

Cripps shook his head. “No, that we 
don’t.” 

“I suppose the Spider’s coming back?” Coombe 
asked, after a pause. 

“Yes,” Cripps replied. “He didn’t seem to relish 
spending his time with me in your backyard, so 
he’s gone off to his club. He said he’d be back here 
at ten.” 

Coombe nodded. “Ah! the Spider always keeps 
Greenwich time.” 

Cripps spat disgustedly. “Yes, other folks’ 
Greenwich times, when he can nick ’em. Ah, that 
there Spider’s a deep ’un.” 

Coombe looked at his companion over his glasses 
with what appeared to be a sudden admiration in 
his milky blue eyes. 

“You’re right, my dear boy. He is deep,” he 


THE SILVER KING 


235 


said. ‘‘We shall have to take him down a peg 
or two.’' 

Cripps nodded, and a scowl passed over his fea- 
tures. “It’s that viller residence of his that swallers 
up all our hard-won earnings,” he said. “Why, you 
and me might take viller residences if we liked, 
couldn’t we?” 

Coombe acquiesced, his face fairly beaming at 
the pleasant picture which the other’s words con- 
jured up. 

“Of course we could.” 

“And we could keep our cooks and butlers,” 
went on Cripps, “and ’arf a dozen ’orses, and mix 
with the gentry, if we felt so disposed, couldn’t 
we ?” 

The elder man passed his damp beard through 
his fingers, apparently struck with admiration at 
the idea of Cripps on his hunter, mixing with the 
gentry. 

“Yes, to be sure we could,” he cried. “But we 
don’t,” he added. 

“No,” said Cripps. “ ’Cos why? ’Cos we don’t 
get the chance.” 

Coombe looked up suddenly, as if a notion had 
just struck him. 

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Master Spider’s flying 
too high for us, dear boy. You back me up to- 
night, and we’ll clip his wings a bit.” 

Cripps’s jaw hardened, his fierce little eyes light- 


236 


THE SILVER KING 


ing up. ‘‘All right,” he said. “Fll back you up. 
But let’s go inside.” 

And the two companions turned away, walking 
towards the wharf house with its dingy sign notify- 
ing that it belonged to Eliah Coombe, marine store- 
dealer. 

But in the few moments that this conversation 
lasted, an inspiration had come to Denver. He 
determined instantly to act upon it. Waiting until 
the two men had got some distance from his hid- 
ing-place and had neared the door, with their backs 
turned to him, he crept swiftly forth, took a few 
quick paces in the opposite direction, and then, 
whistling carelessly and stamping his feet, he walked 
towards them again. 

Both wheeled around quickly at the sound, star- 
tled and taken by surprise; but Denver did not ap- 
pear to notice their confusion. He approached 
them smilingly, his fingers to his ragged hat brim. 

“Here’s poor deaf Dicky,” he said, with a little 
friendly giggle. 

Coombe, the first to recover himself, waved his 
flabby hand gently. 

“Nothing for you to-night, Dicky.” 

Denver moved still nearer, smiling ingratiatingly. 
“Yes, guv’nor,” he cried; “find a job for Dicky — 
poor deaf Dicky.” 

Cripps interrupted scowlingly. “Who the blazes 
is this cove ?” he asked. 


THE SILVER KING 


SST 


Coombe turned a protecting beam from his 
glasses on his protege. 

“Oh, he’s been knocking about here on and 
off for the last six months. He’s handy to run 
errands and take letters to the sea-captains that 
want to buy my old iron/* he said, emphasising the 
last words with a wink to Cripps. “He’s as deaf 
as a post, and he ain’t quite right in his upper 
story.” 

Denver nodded, smiling foolishly. 

“Don’t be hard on poor deaf Dicky,” he said, 
peering up at them as if trying hard to gain the 
purport of their talk. “Give Dicky a job. Dicky 
can run very fast.” 

Coombe shook his head. “No! No!” 

Denver peered at him inquiringly, then, smiling 
again, pulled at his sleeve piteously. 

“Mr. Coombe shakes his head, No, no! but 
Dicky says Yes, yes,” he implored. “Poor 
Dicky’s so hungry. Dicky hasn’t had a job all 
day.” 

But Coombe was inexorable. 

“No, I’ve got no jobs for you to-night,” he said, 
and turning away again, he opened the door of the 
wharf house. 

Denver, pushed aside, hesitated, casting one swift 
glance at the interior of this always forbidden build- 
ing. Then he caught Coombe’s sleeve again. 


THE SILVER KING 


‘‘Dicky only wants a master to treat him kind, 
and dry bread to eat,’’ he cried. 

Cripps thrust him back furiously. “Well, be off 
and get what you want at the workhouse,” he cried, 
“you forty-’orse power idiot !” 

But the benevolent Coombe intervened. 

“He’s useful to me sometimes,” he said. 
“Here, there’s a sixpence. Go and get some 
supper.” 

Swiftly Denver grabbed at the money. “Oh, 
thank you, thank you, guv’ nor!” he gasped. 
“Dicky’ll do anything for you! Dicky very fond 
of you, guv’nor.” 

“Yes, yes, all right,” muttered Coombe, a little 
overwhelmed at this gratitude, and at himself for 
being the cause of it. “All right. But now be 
off.” 

Denver nodded, giggling again, and playing with 
the sixpence. “Dicky’s got a sixpence! Dicky’s 
got a sixpence!” he cried, and he burst into a fit 
of wild laughter, which caused Cripps to turn and 
survey him for a moment with a gaze of amazed 
contempt. 

“Why, he’s as daft as forty blessed hatters!” he 
said at length. “Strike me blind if ’e ain’t !” 

Coombe pulled him by the sleeve, and the two 
men entered the house. 

The heavy door closing behind them, Denver’s 
head fell upon his chest, and he sighed heavily. 


THE SILVER KING 


239 


‘‘Shut out! shut out!” he thought. “Shall I 
never worm myself in? I must be mad to dream 
that ever I shall wring this man^s secret from him. 
And yet he was in Geoffrey Ware’s room that night ! 
Let me always think of that. Let me beat that 
into my brain !” 

Restlessly, forgetful of the cold and damp, he 
paced up and down the wharf, forcing his memory 
for the thousandth time back to that terrible mo- 
ment in his life. 

“This man led me up those stairs,” he said. 
“Why? Why? Oh, if I could only remember 
after that! No, no; all is dark. All is uncertain. 
By Heaven! to think that within a dozen yards of 
me there is a man whose word might give me wife, 
children, home, all! and I stand here and do 
nothing!” 

Pacing the wharf in the fury of his thoughts, 
and forgetful of his assumed character, he barely 
escaped disaster, for, making a sudden turn, he 
collided suddenly with a man whose approach he 
had not noticed, and who was gazing about him as 
if in search of something or somebody. 

Hurriedly Denver assumed again the stooping 
attitude and the shambling walk of the deaf idiot 
he represented himself to be, praying that the new- 
comer might be no one who knew him. 

Taking a short glance at the man’s face, partly 
concealed by the upturned collar of a mackintosh. 


THE SILVER KING 


240 

he felt all the blood in his body rush to his heart 
in one swift gush. It was Corkett! Geoffrey 
Ware’s clerk! Good God! what did it mean? 
This man here, too! What had he to do with 
Coombe, with the gang of scoundrels who had their 
headquarters here at this wharf? 

That it was Corkett he could have no doubt, in 
spite of the lapse of years, in spite of many changes 
in the youth’s face. Could he ever forget the 
appearance of any of the characters in that fatal 
drama of Derby Day, four years ago? And this 
one — how well he could recall him! The “Wheat- 
sheaf,” the billiard-room, the drink, the horror, and 

then However, was the man looking at him ? 

Did he suspect? 

But relief came instantly. The ex-clerk had 
given him a glance in return for his, but it was a 
careless one, and he was now standing biting his 
finger-nails thoughtfully, his hat thrust far back 
on his head, his weak mouth irresolute, his eyes 
wondering. 

Still, what was he waiting for? What did he 
want ? Denver wondered, his brain working 
furiously. What could he want, except to see these 
men? What other errand could bring him down 
to this desolate spot, at this hour and in this 
weather? And yet, if he indeed wished to see 
them, why did he not knock at the wharf house 
door? 


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241 


Swiftly deciding that he must know what this 
visit meant, at any cost, he stumbled towards Cor- 
kett, pulling at the brim of his ragged hat. 

“Got a copper to spare, guv’nor?*' he asked pite- 
ously. 

Corkett started from his reverie and stared at 
him. 

“Hullo!” he said, plainly not a little amused at 
this strange figure. “Copper? No. But can you 
tell me where I can find a party by the name of 
Coombe ?” 

Then it was as Denver had suspected! A flash 
came into his eyes, but he kept his head down, and 
merely mumbled vaguely. 

Corkett stared again, and then approached his 
mouth to Denver^s ear. 

“Can you tell me where I can find a marine store- 
dealer called Coombe ?” he shouted. 

Denver shook his head. “Dicky got no home,” 
he said hopelessly. 

Corkett grinned. “Why, youTe a blooming 
idiot!” he said. “Never mind; you must know 
Coombe. He lives in the Gray's Inn Road, and 
he's got a wharf somewhere about here. Coombe T 

His final shout seemed to appeal to Denver, at 
last. 

He nodded. “Coombe! Yes, Dicky knows Mr. 
Coombe,” he said, smiling. “White hair, red 


242 


THE SILVER KING 


nose, spectacles ; nice kind gentleman, Mr. 
Coombe.'’ 

^'That’s him,” said Corkett. perfect 

beauty, old Coombe is. Where does he hang 
out ?” 

The pretended idiot hesitated. ‘‘Dicky mustn't 
tell,” he said at last, peering up at the other's 
face. “Give Dicky a letter and a sixpence, and 
Dicky'll take it to Mr. Coombe. Let Dicky take 
letter.” 

Corkett nodded, musing. “Oh, I see ! Caution's 
the word,” he muttered. “Father Christmas don't 
want to be smelt out.” 

“All right,” he said, out loud. “I'll go into a 
pub and write to Coombe. Come on, old dunder- 
head, and you shall take the letter.” 

Denver's hand, trembling in reality this time, 
went to his hat again. 

“Thank you, sir; thank you,” he murmured. 

At last the goal was near ! 


CHAPTER XXV 


His heart beating fast, and Corkett's letter in his 
hand, Denver made his way back again towards 
the wharf house. 

With his mind trained and senses sharpened by 
his late experiences, he realised that he was fol- 
lowed at a distance by the ex-clerk, who either did 
not completely trust him, or wished to know as 
quickly as possible the place of Coombe’s retreat. 
He took no notice of the pursuit, however. His 
mind was concentrated on the one thought : was he 
now at last to gain an entrance into that mysterious 
house where these men held their meetings, and 
discussed their villainies; was he about at last to 
learn something of the truth? 

And, reaching the door, he knocked at it. 

There had been voices raised within as he ap- 
proached, he knew, though what they said he could 
not hear. At his knock a sudden silence fell, and 
the faint light piercing through a crack in the win- 
dow shutter went out. 

He knocked again, and at last, after a long time, 
a voice replied : 

‘‘Who’s there? Who is it?” 

243 


THE SILVER KING 


It was Coombe who spoke; he could tell that 
much. 

Denver knocked again vigorously. “It^s poor 
deaf Dicky,’’ he cried. ‘‘Got a note for Mr. 
Coombe. Let Dicky in, please.” 

There was a hurried consultation within, and the 
door opened, showing Coombe with a candlestick 
in his hand, his pale, broad face standing out 
plainly against the blackness of the room behind 
him. 

“It’s a letter, guv’ nor,” said Denver, holding the 
envelope tightly. “Gentleman wanted to know 
where Mr. Coombe lived. Dicky wouldn’t tell him. 
Dicky said he would bring a letter. Gentleman 
give Dicky twopence.” 

As he spoke he tried to push his way past Coombe 
into the house, but the old man braced himself 
against the doorway. 

“All right,” he said. “Give me the letter, and 
wait outside.” 

He pushed the door to as Denver unwillingly 
handed over the note ; but the latter’s foot was be- 
tween it and the jamb, and without forcing him to 
withdraw it the old man held it on the inside while 
he opened the note. 

“It’s from the Duke of New York,” Denver 
heard him say. 

“Curse the fellow !” came a reply in cold, drawl- 
ing tones. “To think how many good people die 


THE SILVER KING 


245 


off every day, and yet that blackguard persists in 
living on!’’ 

‘‘He wants money,” went on Coombe’s suave 
voice. “He says we ain’t treating him fair. 
He must see us to-night, and we’re to send 
back an answer by the idiot who brings this 
note.” 

Denver heard an exclamation of anger from the 
other speaker. “Tell him to go to the devil! Now, 
Coombe, come on ; let’s get to business.” 

Coombe half opened the door again. “I’ll send 
deaf Dicky off first,” he said. 

Denver clenched his hands, but at that moment 
a shout came from within the room. “Boil m.e 
down into mock-turtle soup,” resounded the voice 
of Cripps, “if that deaf chap ain’t the very man we 
want to keep this crib !” 

It was fortunate that the door was only half open 
and Coombe on the other side of it, for the start 
Denver gave at these words would assuredly have 
betrayed him otherwise. As it was, he had time to 
recover himself while the cold, drawling voice 
asked, “What’s the fellow like?” 

Coombe laughed, hardly troubling to speak 
softly. “He’s quite deaf, and an idiot too. 
They’d never be able to get anything out of 
him.” 

“That’s the sort of man we want,” Denver heard 


246 


THE SILVER KING 


with beating pulses. ‘‘Bring him in, Coombe. Let’s 
have a look at him.” 

My God! At last the moment had come! 
Would he be able to act it out? These were 
dangerous men. Would his nerve, the skill 
that had served him up to now, carry him 
through ? 

Coombe threw open the door, and he shambled in. 

Round a table, in a dingy, dirty apartment, half 
warehouse and half living-room, furnished mostly 
with boxes and packing-cases, and now lighted 
feebly by the candle in Coombe’s hand, sat two 
men — the Spider and Cripps. Before them were 
glasses and a bottle. At one end of the room were 
rickety stairs leading to the floor above. Beyond 
them a dark, cellar-like passage. 

Denver’s gaze instinctively turned towards the 
spot where sat the Spider in his immaculate evening 
clothes, his eyeglass surveying him curiously, 
keenly. 

“What’s your name ?” Skinner asked, after a mo- 
ment. 

Denver touched his cap, grinning obsequiously, 
but only stared blankly. 

Skinner frowned, raising his voice: “What’s 
your name?” he repeated. 

Denver looked round the room vaguely. 

“Yes, guv’nor,” he smiled. 

Here Cripps, who had, as we have seen, 


THE SILVER KING 


^47 


already made ‘'Dicky^s'' acquaintance, intervened 
roughly. 

‘‘What’s your damned name, you thick-headed 
idiot?” he shouted, leaning forward over the table 
at him. 

“He’s round at the public-house,” said 
Denver cheerfully. “Dicky’ll go and fetch 
him.” 

Skinner smiled. “This man would be a perfect 
treasure in the witness-box,” he said. “I should 
like to see him under cross-examination,” 

“Dicky take an answer?” asked Denver. 

Skinner shook his head. “No. Listen. You 
want work, don’t you. WorkT he continued, rais- 
ing his voice sharply. 

Denver nodded, clapping his hands. “Work? 
Oh yes, guv’nor, Dicky work very hard. Dicky 
do what you tell him. Scrub floors, run errands — 
an)d;hing.” 

Skinner turned to Coombe. “This man is like 
you, Coombe,” he sneered. “He’ll do anything you 
like for an honest living.” 

“Shall we have him?” asked the old man, 
throwing a smile that was almost paternal at the 
sardonic Skinner. 

“Dicky’ll be as faithful as a dog,” Denver went 
on, his eyes searching their faces anxiously. 
“Dicky’ll follow you everywhere, and never leave 
you.” 


248 


THE SILVER KING 


“The devil he won’t!’' laughed Skinner. “That 
would be rather awkward, eh? But he’s as safe 
as anyone we could get, I should say, Coombe. Give 
him a trial.” 

“What’s that, guv’nor?” asked Denver, his heart 
beating wildly. 

Skinner shook his head. “No, I can’t shout any 
more,” he said. “You tell him, Coombe.” 

The old man stepped up to Denver and, clearing 
his throat, explained. 

“You can come here as porter, and sleep on the 
premises. Fifteen shillings a week” — and he 
counted the sum on his fingers. 

Denver caught his arm, shaking his head grate- 
fully. “Oh, thank you, guv’nor. Dicky thanks 
you I” 

Coombe wagged his beard benevolently. “Come 
on, then. This way,” he said. “I’ll show you 
where you’re to sleep.” And he led Denver in the 
direction of the stairs. 

The room to which Coombe led the way was not 
palatial. Indeed, many a dog would have turned 
up its nose at it in these days of degeneration (for 
dogs) ; but little its want of comfort mattered to 
Denver. He was in this house; he was, himself, 
now one of these men, their servant, their watch- 
man, and his chance had come. 

He heard the old man turn to the door, as, 
apparently overcome with fatigue and gratitude, he 


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249 


threw himself down on a bundle of sacks in one 
corner of the bare chamber; he heard the handle 
click, and the steps descend the stairs, and he 
sprang to his feet swiftly and softly. These men 
were strained in their manner this night; he felt 
sure there was a crisis of some kind in the air, a 
crisis perhaps to be precipitated by the arrival of 
the ex-clerk, so providential for him — a something 
intangible that warned him that his own fate was 
about to be decided; and he was not going to lie 
there idle. He must know what was going for- 
ward, see or hear at any cost. 

He pulled off his boots and quietly he crept to 
the door. Had Coombe locked it behind him? 
No. It was open. 

For one agonising minute he listened, the handle 
clutched in his hand, his breathing hushed; then, 
gently and cautiously, he made his way out. 

The stairs were in darkness, and beyond them, 
even in the room where those men sat talking; 
only the single candle cast uncanny shadows on 
the walls, throwing its light full upon the three 
strangely contrasted faces round the table, yet 
seeming to make deeper the gloom of the staircase 
and the cellar-like passage beyond it. 

The men's voices were raised, almost in anger 
as it seemed to Denver; but, strain his ears as 
he would, he could not catch their words. So 
stealthily he crept along the landing, and down the 


250 


THE SILVER KING 


dark staircase, fearing every moment that some 
sound might make them listen and suspect, yet 
determined to lose no word nor sign that might 
help him onward in the path that he had 
mapped out. 

Suddenly the voices ceased, and he paused, half- 
way down the stairs, blotting himself against the 
shadow of the wall. A knock had come at the 
outer door of the house, and was now repeated; a 
loud, peculiar knock, that rang out sharply in the 
silence which had fallen upon the group round the 
table. 

Then he heard Cripps’s rough voice in sudden 
relief. 

“Why, it’s that blessed Duke of New York!” 
And a nervous laugh followed from Coombe. 

Denver listened eagerly. So Corkett had got 
tired of waiting for his answer, and having fol- 
lowed him, had now come himself to seek it! So 
much the better. Now he would know the con- 
nection between all these rascals. 

And he crept lower down the stairs. 

“You’d better let him in,” came Skinner’s cold 
tones, “or else he’ll kick up that row all night.” 

Denver was now at the foot of the stairs. Frorn 
where he crouched he could see the table and the 
door, watch the faces of the three men, hear their 
every word; but he was in grave danger. They 
were not men who would stop at much; a sound 


THE SILVER KING 


251 


from him, a cough, even a few steps on the part of 
one of them in his direction, and his life must pay 
the forfeit. He peered round him desperately. 

Under the staircase, at the back of it, he could 
faintly see a dark hole, a sort of open cupboard, in 
whose depths he could listen, even see, with perfect 
safety; and, covered by the noise of the heavily 
barred door being opened, he crawled inside it, 
breathing a sigh of gratitude as he did so. 

As he crouched down upon the stone flags of the 
floor, his hand touched cold iron and his fingers 
closed round a heavy crowbar. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


It was Corkett who entered as the door opened — 
Corkett dressed up to the eyes, in a check suit, a 
light-coloured bowler hat and pale grey gloves ; an 
improved replica of the Corkett whom Denver saw 
on Derby Day four years before. Evidently he 
had bettered his tailor in the interval, if not his 
morals. Over his left arm he carried the mackin- 
tosh coat which he had been wearing just now 
when he collided with deaf Dicky on the wharf ; in 
his right hand he twirled a cane. He came in smil- 
ing affably at Coombe, who ushered him in. Yet 
there was a nervous twitch at the comers of his 
mouth, an anxiety in his eyes as they rested on 
Cripps and Skinner, and a constraint in his whole 
manner which all his jauntiness could not disguise. 
Nor did his voice ring true. 

‘^How do, dear boys!” he cried. ‘‘Ah, Spider, 
my old pal ! Bless you, bless you 1” 

Skinner glared at him witheringly. 

“Bless yourself,” he snapped, “and pray for 
some brains. What do you want?” 

“£ s. d., especially the £,” replied Corkett, seat 
ing himself at the table with great assumption o' 
252 


THE SILVER KING 


253 


assurance, and endeavouring to look Skinner in the 
face. The glare through the eyeglass became more 
vicious and the wearer’s voice more acid. 

“What have you done with the last twenty 
pounds?” he inquired. 

“Blowed it!” 

Skinner frowned, and his cold glance passed up 
and down the younger man’s clothes for a few 
seconds. 

“So I see you’ve been to my tailor again,” he 
remarked. 

Corkett’s face brightened, and he cast a look of 
satisfaction down at his check trousers. He faced 
Skinner with a smile. 

“Yes. Neat, ain’t they?” he asked. “I told him 
to put them down to your account. Hope you 
don’t mind, dear boy?” 

The other’s white teeth gleamed viciously beneath 
his dark moustache. “Take care, you brute!” he 
hissed. “You’re nearly at the end of your tether.” 

Corkett turned to Coombe, who was nervously 
looking from one to the other and rubbing his 
hands. 

“Dear old Father Christmas !” he said. 

“My young friend, ’Enery Corkett!” replied the 
old man, shaking him warmly by the hand, his 
pale blue eyes seeking Skinner’s in a deprecating 
glance over the young one’s shoulder. “How are 
you, how are you?” 


254 


THE SILVER KING 


But Skinner was not to be soothed. With an 
angry shrug he turned roughly from the ex-clerk. 

“What have you done with that deaf fool?” 
he asked. 

“Took him upstairs and put him to sleep 
comfortable,” replied Coombe. “He’s happy 
enough.” 

“Then let’s get to business, sharp,” continued 
Skinner, pulling out his cigarette-case and lighting 
a cigarette. “Where’s the cash-box?” 

Coombe’s face fell. He threw an anxious look 
at his leader’s frowning brow, and with a halting 
step he made his way to the chimney corner. Lift- 
ing an iron box from some hiding-place, he brought 
it to the table. 

“How much?” asked Skinner, following his 
movements with a grim and searching gaze. 

“A hundred and eighty.” 

Skinner glanced at him sharply, and then at 
Cripps, whose eyes were watching fiercely from 
under his overhanging brows. 

“Only a hundred and eighty for all that plate! 
I’d better have left it on Sir George’s sideboard. 
I shall miss it next time I dine with him.” 

Coombe appeared to be busy making the coins 
into three separate heaps, and did not reply. When 
he had completed his task he handed one portion 
to Skinner and another to Cripps, whose huge right 
hand closed on it like a vise. 


THE SILVER KING 


255 


“That clears Sir George's plate," said the old 
man cheerfully, apparently relieved from some bur- 
den which had been oppressing him. 

Skinner looked fixedly at him. 

“Right," he said, crossing his legs and leaning 
back in his chair. “And now, my venerable friend, 
just one word with you about Lady Blanche's 
jewels. Where are they?" 

Coombe's red nose for a second appeared to turn 
almost white, so great was the embarrassment the 
abrupt question caused him, and he stood rather 
weakly blinking down at his questioner's fixed eye- 
glass. 

“Well, you see, my dear boy," he stammered ; “I 
didn't like to leave them here, and so I took them 
to my own place — my shop in the Gray's Inn Road. 
I thought they'd be safer there." 

Skinner smiled scornfully. “Now, Coombe," he 
said, “you're telling lies, you know. Lies! And 
setting a bad example to Cripps here!" 

Cripps looked up ferociously. “Yes, Father 
Christmas, don’t you try any hanky-panky tricks 
on this child,” he growled. “You know me. Han- 
dle me gende, use me well, fair and square, and 
I’ve got the temper of a sucking lamb. Haven't 
I, Spider?" 

Skinner nodded. “You have, Mr. Cripps,” he 
said, flicking some cigarette ash off his sleeve. 
“Also its playfulness and innocence." 


256 THE SILVER KING 


“But/' continued Cripps, banging his hand down 
on the table with a force that made the room ring, 
“rub me the wrong way — come any dodge over me, 
try to do me out of my fair share of the swag, and 
then !" 

“Then," said Skinner, quietly raising his hand, 
“then you have the ferocity of the British lion in 
mortal combat with the apocryphal unicorn. Now, 
Coombe," he continued, turning to the confused 
and expostulating old man, “once more — where 
are Lady Blanche's diamonds?" 

Coombe rubbed his hands together, his eyes 
gleaming moistly from behind his glasses. “My 
dear boy," he expostulated, “I’ve got a gentleman 
coming to see them next week — a. gentleman from 
Amsterdam." 

The words brought an oath from Cripps, who 
rose heavily to his feet. 

“Damn Amsterdam!" he cried. 

Skinner brushed him aside. “Never mind 
that," he said sternly to Coombe. “I want my 
property." 

It was evident that a quarrel was on the point 
of breaking out, for the men were glaring at one 
another fiercely, and even Corkett, who till now 
had rather effaced himself, drew nearer the table. 
Denver, his heart beating wildly, peered eagerly 
from his hiding-place. What was about to 
happen ? 


THE SILVER KING 


257 


For a moment there was a hush. Then Skinner 
stepped up to Coombe. 

‘'Those jewels are worth six thousand pounds/' 
he cried, "and once more, for the last time, where 
are they?" 

Coombe waved his flabby hands wildly. "Don’t 
get into a temper, gentlemen," he quavered pite- 
ously. "I tell you I may have a customer for them 
next week — we’ll settle for them then." 

"No, we won’t settle for them then," Skinner 
hissed. "We’ll settle for them now!" 

Cripps moved his huge frame nearer and fixed 
his small, fierce eyes on the agitated old man. 

"Yes, we’ll settle for them now!" he concurred. 

"Yes, we’ll settle for them now!" 

This third repetition came from Corkett, and at 
his sudden entry into the quarrel Skinner, already 
angry, turned furiously round. 

"You infernal jackanapes!" he cried. "What 
business is it of yours?" 

Corkett faced him desperately. "Every busi- 
ness of mine, Mr. Spider," he cried. "Look here!" 
and he turned out his pockets, which flapped emp- 
tily against his startling trousers. "That’s what 
business it is of mine. I mean to have fifty quid 
out of this." 

Skinner sneered. "Oh, you do, do you?" 

Corkett nodded, his pale face suddenly redden- 
ing and his weak mouth trembling with rage. 


g58 


THE SILVER KING 


“Yes, I do,’' he said. “And if you don’t give it 
me. I’ll let on about — about Hatton Garden, four 
years ago.” 

“Hatton Garden! Four years ago!” 

Denver’s hand -went to his lips, stilling the cry 
that was bursting from them. Hatton Garden! 
Four years ago! What was he about to hear? 

At Corkett’s words Skinner’s always white face 
had turned whiter, while his green eyes fixed them- 
selves fiercely on the ex-clerk’s. Suddenly his 
hands went out, causing the other to leap back. 

“You dog!” he shouted. “If you say a word 
more ” 

Corkett laughed, half nervous, half furious, 
himself. 

“A word more!” he said with a grimacing 
mouth. 

The laugh died on his lips, for in another second 
the Spider had him by the throat, and he was bat- 
tling for his life. 

Coombe, probably glad of this unexpected relief, 
rushed to drag the Spider from his prey, and even 
Cripps lent a heavy hand; but for a moment their 
efforts were in vain. The Spider’s grip was of 
steel, and the struggling youth writhed uselessly, 
his face becoming rapidly purple, his voice dying 
in his throat. 

“I’ve given you rope enough, Mr. Corkett,” 


THE SILVER KING 


259 


hissed Skinner, his fingers closing in on his vic- 
tim’s neck. 

“Don’t talk about rope,” gasped the wretched 
youth. “If it comes to hanging, it won’t be me. 
It’ll be you.” 

“Curse you!” cried Skinner, now quite beside 
himself. “Will you never give me peace till I kill 
you?” 

“Yes,” ejaculated Corkett, with a last shriek of 
despair, “as you killed Geoffrey Ware!” 

“Ah!” 

It was Denver’s voice, Denver’s cry which rang 
through the house and out into the night beyond — 
the cry of a soul rescued at last from years of 
torment. 

“Innocent! Innocent! Thank God, I am in- 
nocent !” 

At this sound, this cry from the darkness beyond 
them, Skinner dropped his hands, Coombe and 
Cripps turned wildly round, and even Corkett, 
stunned, suffocated as he was, reeled about to stare. 

And Denver rose from his hiding-place, the 
crowbar in his hand, and gazed back at them. 

For a second his transfigured face, his gleaming 
eyes, mesmerised them, holding them motionless. 

Then Skinner spoke, his voice sounding hollow 
and far away. 

“Who is that?” he asked, his face turning sud- 
denly grey. 


^60 


THE SILVER KING 


Denver looked at him, and for a second the eyes 
of those two men met — the eyes of the murderer 
and of the man who had so long endured the bur- 
den of his crime — and Denver spoke. 

‘‘It is Wilfred Denver,” he said. “Stand from 
that door!” 

Cripps instinctively, at the first sound, had edged 
between the staircase and the doorway. Coombe 
and Skinner had faced about, prepared for any 
emergency; yet at this name all stood dumb, mo- 
tionless, and again there came a pause. 

Denver walked forward, the crowbar in his hand. 

For a moment it seemed as if he was to be 
allowed to escape without a struggle, so stunning 
had been the effect of his name upon these men. 
But as Denver neared the door a sense of all that 
this man’s freedom would mean to himself came 
upon the Spider. 

“Stop him!” he cried. “Stop him, you curs!” 
and he hurled himself upon Denver. 

“Stop me!” Denver gave a wild and joyous 
laugh. “Why, all the world could not stop me 
now!” And, flinging Skinner off as if the sinewy 
man had been a child, he leapt forward at the other 
three. 

Coombe and Corkett went down like ninepins, 
offering no resistance, glad to escape the gleaming 
crowbar. Only Cripps, his head lowered like a 
bull’s, held but for a second against the furious 


THE SILVER KING 


261 ' 


charge. Then there was a crash, an instant’s 
struggle, a flash of the iron, a furious oath, and the 
burglar was down, his head covered with blood. 
The door panels cracked and splintered, and 
Denver was out and running swiftly across the 
wharf. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


The ingenious Mr. Corkett arose, hardly dam- 
aged, and mechanically, as one who avoids further 
hurt, shambled out. 

The Spider watched him go with an odd air of 
relief, blended with contempt. Then he looked 
around him. On one side lay the venerable Mr. 
Coombe, effectually stunned and put out of action, 
though no signs of injury were perceptible. Skin- 
ner felt his heart; it was beating regularly. 

^‘No serious harm,'' he muttered, more regret- 
fully than otherwise. Next he examined Cripps. 

The burglar was not a pretty sight, as he had 
a gaping wound on the temple, which had bled 
freely over his always unprepossessing countenance. 
He, however, appeared only to be stunned. 

The Spider sat down and thought as he had 
never thought before. The situation was indeed 
desperate. Denver, his victim and scapegoat, was 
alive, and had proclaimed himself. This was 
bad enough. What was worse was that in 
the struggle the false wig and beard had come 
off, and Skinner had recognised in the vision of 
silver hair a face he thought he knew. A card- 
262 


THE SILVER KING 


263 


case, lying where Denver had dropped it, confirmed 
the suspicion. The erstwhile victim had come 
back in the formidable shape of John Franklin, the 
millionaire. 

The game was up; the case was hopeless. The 
Spider swore beneath his breath. 

In this moment of totally unforeseen crisis he 
showed himself to have the elements of genius — 
he proved himself a leader of men, a master of 
resource who, had he only elected to run straight, 
might have done great things for good in the 
world’s arena. 

In this emergency, with the whole fabric of his 
schemes lying in ruins, and threatening imminent 
danger to himself, he was as cool and collected as 
though he were idly chatting at the house of one 
of his rich friends. 

His thoughts raced to a conclusion. His plans 
were made; he got up and bound and gagged both 
his accomplices as they lay. 

Having thus secured them, he proceeded to 
search thoroughly round the place, evidently in the 
hopes of coming on some treasure-trove. 

For a long time he could find nothing and he 
swore softly but vindictively. At last, however, he 
came on them in a dark cupboard, and he collected 
them with an air of positive glee. Then he put 
them into the bag. 

There still remained the one hundred and eighty 


264 . 


THE SILVER KING 


pounds, which was lying about in its three scattered 
heaps. Skinner collected it all, and put it in the 
bag. It was a contemptible sum, and he scowled 
as he looked at it. Still, there it was ; and it would 
be absurd to leave it. 

Then he took the necessary steps to restore his 
somewhat ruffled dress to its customary immacu- 
late appearance. Satisfied at last in regard to this, 
he smiled to himself, as one who feels his self- 
respect is regained. 

Then stooping he unbound his two confederates, 
who were both beginning to show signs of return- 
ing to their senses. 

Finally he picked up the bag and strolled casually 
out. 

His next step was extraordinary in its assurance 
and utter daring. John Franklin, of Kensington 
Gardens Avenue, was the danger spot. To John 
Franklin he would go then and there. 

The risk was enormous, but it seemed to offer 
the one chance of safety. It was on the borders 
of possibility that Franklin might listen to reason, 
and avoid raking the old trouble up. 

This was the more possible in that he himself, 
once publicly recognised as Denver, lay under the 
definite charge of murder, unless he could prove 
his innocence. 

Thus the thing was worth trying, and Skinner, 
gay and debonair as any highly placed society man. 


THE SILVER KING 


265 


made his way across London to the millionaire’s 
house. 

But here a shock awaited him. The gorgeous 
man-servant who opened the door said that Mr. 
Franklin was not in. 

He had gone out in a violent hurry about ten 
minutes previously, saying that all communications 
were to be forwarded to the Grange, Gardenhurst. 
This was a blow. Still, possession of this address 
was a great piece of luck. Skinner thanked the 
man civilly and withdrew. 

Out in the road he again thought for a 
moment, and again instantaneously formed his 
plans. 

Nothing could be done to-night. He must go 
back home for the night. 

When Skinner reached his home at Bromley, it 
was already well past midnight. A bright moon 
was shining, however, and by the light of its beams 
he could see for some little distance round the 
villa. A careful survey of the immediate neigh- 
bourhood assured him that he had not been 
followed by any members of the gang of which he 
was the head, and he let himself into the house 
with his latchkey, closing the door softly behind 
him. 

Save for the faint glimmer of the hall lamp, the 
villa was in darkness. It was evident that both 
Olive and the servants were in bed and asleep. 


266 


THE SILVER KING 


After listening for a moment he made his way, 
stepping cautiously, to his smoking-room on the 
ground floor — an apartment which hardly any- 
one but himself ever Ventured to enter. Here he 
struck a match, and, lighting the gas, placed 
the bag containing Coombe's treasures upon his 
desk. 

With a quick glance he made certain that the 
shutters of the window were fast closed, and that 
no one could spy in upon him from the lawn out- 
side; and then, unfastening the bag with practised 
hand, he started to examine its contents. 

Another smile crossed his features as he gathered 
the money and notes together and bestowed them 
carefully in his pockets. Then he walked to the 
door, and going to the foot of the stairs, called 
softly once or twice: ‘^Olive! Olive!” 

At the second repetition of the name a faint noise 
of footsteps overhead made itself heard. Skinner 
returned to the smoking-room. In a few minutes 
the steps descended the stairs and approached the 
room in a timid, hesitating way. 

Olive Skinner had evidently just been aroused 
from her slumbers, and had come down after 
putting on a dressing-gown and slippers, for the 
billows of her soft, dark hair were tumbled about 
her ears, and her eyes were still misty with sleep. 
She stood for a moment, a pretty picture framed 
in the dark doorway, watching her husband with 


THE SILVER KING 


267 


that half-affectionate, half-frightened glance which 
he knew so well. Then, as her eyes travelled from 
his face to the heap of jewels upon the table, she 
started and turned pale. 

'What do you want, Herbert?” she asked in a 
faint voice. 

Skinner’s green eyes were looking over her 
shoulder as though searching the darkness behind 
her, and for a moment he did not answer. "Shut 
the door,” he said at last. 

Olive was watching him again with anxious eyes 
that strove to read the inscrutable face. She closed 
the door at his command, and drew nearer to him. 

"Something has happened !” she said. "Herbert, 
tell me — what is it?” 

Her husband made answer in a low tone, his 
glance for once evading hers. "The worst,” he 
replied. "That man Denver is alive.” 

She gave a startled gasp, and her hand went to 
her heart 

"Alive!” she cried. "Oh, no! impossible!” 

"Yes, he is alive,” repeated Skinner. "I have 
seen him. He has got on our scent, and he knows 
everything.” 

She swayed and with difficulty supported herself 
against the table. "Have I not always said that 
a day of reckoning would come?” 

Skinner bit his lips savagely. "Oh, for Heav- 
en’s sake don’t preach now! Listen to me. If you 


^68 


THE SILVER KING 


make one mistake in carrying out my instructions, 
it is death and ruin to me. Now, will you obey?’^ 
he demanded. 

The brutality of his tone brought to the dark 
eyes the tears that had been waiting there. 
“Oh, Herbert,” she began brokenly, “you 
know ” 

But he interrupted her sternly. “No sermons! 
Will you do as I tell you?” 

“You know I will,” she panted, “if it is to save 
you.” 

Skinner turned to the jewels upon his desk. 

“You see all this?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“While it is safe, I am safe. If it is found, I 
am ruined. Do you understand?” 

The young woman bent her head. “Yes,” she 
murmured. 

Skinner walked to a Japanese lacquered cabinet 
fastened to the wall by the side of his desk, and 
looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. Then, 
opening it, he took the jewels from the table, placed 
them and their case in the cabinet, and, locking the 
door, handed the key to his wife. 

“There is the key,” he said, speaking slowly, 
as though to impress every word carefully upon 
her mind. “The moment I leave this house, take 
those jewels out, sew them carefully in your dress, 
walk to Lewisham, take the first train to Charing 


THE SILVER KING 


269 


Cross, and the morning express to Paris. Go to 
the old address. I will join you as soon as I can. 
Remember what there is at stake. If you find 
yourself watched or followed, get rid of this stuff — 
burn it, plant it on somebody else, but for Heaven’s 
sake don’t be found with it on you. And don’t 
write to me. Now, is that all? Yes, that 
is all.” 

The cold, hard voice brought fresh tears to the 
eyes of the young wife, who had waited anxiously 
for some word of thought or affection for her- 
self ; but she made an effort to disguise her 
anguish. 

“You don’t mean I shall not see you again?” 
she asked, attempting to talk calmly, and choking 
back a sob. 

Skinner looked at her, speaking a little more 
gently. “Not for a week or two,” he said, and 
stooping towards her he kissed her lightly on her 
tear-stained cheek. “Good-bye.” 

Sadly she returned the caress, looking nervously 
up at him. “Good-bye, Herbert,” she murmured. 
“Oh, take care!” 

“It is you who must take care,” her husband re- 
plied, “I can trust you, Olive?” 

She nodded. “Yes, I will make no mistake. The 
jewels shall not be found.” 

Skinner gave her another careless caress. “Good 
girl I I shall make something of you yet.” 


^70 


THE SILVER KING 


At that moment a low whistle from outside on 
the lawn penetrated to the house, and both started. 

‘^It must be Coombe,’^ said Skinner, after a sec- 
ond. “Now, be off, Olive. The moment the house 
is clear, set to work.” 

Olive gave a last look at her husband's cold face. 
“Oh, Herbert, what am I doing for your sake?” 
she wailed. 

But he made no reply, and, turning, she left the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Skinner^ as soon as he heard his wife’s foot- 
steps ascending the stairs, again turned the gas 
down low, went to the window, and, opening the 
shutters slightly, peered out on to the lawn. With 
the aid of the moonlight he was able to make out 
that he had not been mistaken in the identity of his 
visitors. He pulled the shutters back, and, raising 
the window-sash, beckoned to the three men to 
enter the house that way. 

Clinging to one another, tumbling over one an- 
other in their haste, Coombe, Cripps, and Corkett 
answered the invitation and made their way into 
the room through the window. When the shutters 
were closed again and the gas turned up, they 
grouped themselves round the table and watched 
their leader, breathless and anxious, their faces 
pale with curiosity and excitement. 

‘'My dear boy!” gasped Coombe, the first to 
recover himself, although his “Father Christmas” 
beard still heaved on his panting chest. “My dear 
boy, what luck. Did you manage to follow him 
up?” 

Skinner’s keen eyes had been scanning their faces 
271 


^72 


THE SILVER KING 


narrowly from the moment they entered the room. 
He now nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “I followed 
him to a big place in Kensington Gardens Avenue. 
He is known there as John Franklin, the million- 
aire — the Silver King.” 

“The Silver King!” His three listeners stared 
in amazement. 

“Well, and then, my dear boy, what did you do?” 
asked Coombe at last. 

“Brazened it out. Went up to the door of the 
place and inquired for him. Gave my name, and 
asked to be shown up.” 

“And what did he say. Spider?” 

“He’d just driven off to the country — Heaven 
knows why. But I got his address, and I can put 
my hand on him when I choose.” 

Cripps took a step forward, his savage face low- 
ering. “Yes, that’s all very well; but can you 
stop his jaw?” he asked. 

Skinner’s eyes flashed in reply. “Yes, if I 
can stop yours. Now, look here, you three,” he 
continued, seeing his companions look inquiringly 
at each other, “we are perfectly safe while we hold 
our tongues. There is not a fraction of evidence 
against us, and there never will be if we keep quiet. 
But the moment one of us opens his mouth, it’s 
penal servitude for all of us. Now, do we stick 
together ?” 

For a moment the three men looked again into 


THE SILVER KING 


273 


each other's drawn faces doubtfully; then, the su- 
perior scoundrel's authority as usual gaining the 
day, they nodded. ‘‘Of course we will. Spider. 
Of course we will, dear boy!" 

Skinner's white hand went to his brow, on which, 
apparent only to himself, a slight perspiration had 
gathered, and he drew a long breath. 

‘‘Right," he said calmly. “Now, there's not a 
moment to waste. Coombe, you go to your place 
in the Gray's Inn Road. You may get a visit from 
the police to-morrow. Be ready for them. Destroy 
every scrap that could tell a tale. Sharp's the word. 
Off you go." 

Father Christmas hesitated, nervously fingering 
his beard with his flabby hands, his blue eyes 
glancing behind his spectacles from Skinner's cold 
face to his companions, and back again. 

“But the swag at the wharf?" he asked. 

Skinner carefully wiped his monocle, and, placing 
it in his eye, looked sternly at the old man. 

“The swag is not at the wharf," he said. “It 
is safe. Now, will you go?" 

Eliah Coombe’s mouth opened, expostulating, 

and his hands went up. “But, Spider " he 

commenced. 

The Spider's iron grip fastened amiably but ir- 
resistibly upon his collar. “Will you be off?" he 
said. 

The old man's power of speech seemed to dry up. 


274 


THE SILVER KING 


Without another word he allowed himself to be led 
towards the window, clambered over the sill 
on to the lawn, and vanished into the night 
beyond. 

Skinhcr turned to Cripps. ‘‘Now, you, Cripps/' 
he said. “You go to ‘The Lawn,’ Kensington Gar- 
dens Avenue, and watch the house.” 

The bulldog man frowned heavily. “Whose 
house?” he growled. 

“Denver’s — Franklin’s — or whatever he calls 
himself. Take the Moucher with you, and send 
him to the Carr Lane crib to report every three 
hours.” 

Cripps shuffled his feet, casting dangerous looks 
from the corners of his little savage eyes. 

“But the blessed swag — what’ve you done about 
that?” he demanded hoarsely. 

The eyeglass shone on him very coldly. “Didn’t 
I tell you that the swag was safe?” 

“Yes, but what do you call safe? Where is 
it?” 

The Spider took a quick step towards the brutal- 
looking ruffian in front of him, and, fixing his 
glance as a lion-tamer fixes a wild beast’s, he 
replied to the question, emphasising each word 
with a light tap of his forefinger on the man’s 
chest. 

“I call a thing safe, Cripps, when that thing is 
in my possession, and its whereabouts is known 


THE SILVER KING 


275 


only to myself/' he said. “Now, the swag is safe 
in that sense." 

Cripps hesitated. “That’s all in my eye!" he 
growled. 

Skinner, with an ostensibly friendly gesture, 
patted him on the shoulder, pushing him at the 
same time gently, but very firmly, in the direction 
of the window. 

“You shall have your share when the time 
comes," he said reassuringly, “Now, no more 
words. Bundle off." 

For a second the burglar still hesitated, but the 
Spider’s persuasive grasp was urging him on, the 
Spider’s suave, yet authoritative, tones were speak- 
ing his dismissal, and he, too, passed out into the 
night. 

Corkett was left, ill at ease, shifting his feet un- 
comfortably, hang-dog looking, but meekly obsti- 
nate to the last ; and Skinner and he looked at one 
another for a moment in silence. 

“And what am I to do. Spider?" he asked at 
last. 

Skinner’s hands clenched themselves with a 
vicious gesture. “You!" he cried fiercely. “It 
was your cursed babbling that brought us into 
this infernal mess. Now, I’ll give you a word of 
caution. If you ever open your mouth one single 
half-inch, it’s all up with you. If that Hatton 
Garden business comes to light — if it’s ever known 


S76 


THE SILVER KING 


that Denver didn’t do it, it will be known that 
Corkett did.” 

‘‘My God!” 

The Spider grimly watched the grey shadows 
spread over the shaking youth’s pasty features, and 
then took a step nearer to him. 

“Yes, we’ve made up our minds that if one of 
us has to swing for it, it’ll be you,” he said. “Now 
you’ve been warned.” 

Corkett’s eyes looked wildly round the room, and 
then returned to his companion’s inexorable face. 

“Oh, yes. Spider,” he gasped, “I’ll be silent. 
I’ll take my davey I’ll never mention it again.” 

Skinner watched him for a moment. It was 
evident the youth was thoroughly cowed, but it 
was not wise, he thought, to drive him too far. 
And he took Coombe’s money bag from his pocket 
thoughtfully. 

“Now, look here,” he said more gently, “if I 
let you have a sufficient sum, do you think you 
can manage to make yourself scarce for three 
months ?” 

A gleam of relief came into Corkett’s shifty 
eyes, and his pale features lightened up. “I’ll try, 
Spider,” he said quickly. “I should like to go on 
the Continent if I’d got coin enough. I’ve got a 
pal in Amsterdam.” 

Skinner began to count out some money from 
the bag. 


THE SILVER KING 


27T 


“Very well,” he said, after a moment. “I’ll let 
you have fifty pounds.” 

Corkett’s eyes sparkled, and he fastened them on 
the gleaming coins avariciously; but with an effort 
he kept his hands in his pockets and pretended to 
hesitate. 

“Fifty pounds!” he said. “Oh, come. Spider,, 
don’t be stingy! Three months! — and they’re 
sure to cheat me. I can’t speak a vs^ord of Dutch. 
Make it a hundred, and I’ll be off slick to-morrow 
morning.” 

Skinner shook his head. “I shall give you 
sixty, and not a penny more,” he said firmly, and 
he replaced the bag in his pocket, not noticing that 
the youth’s eyes had cast a keen glance at the 
brown canvas. 

“There you are,” he said, handing him the coins. 
“And don’t reckon on getting any more from me. 
I’ve had just as much of you as I can swallow. 
There’s a train from Liverpool Street to Harwich 
at eight o’clock. You had better go by that.” 

Corkett pocketed the money with the grimace of 
a street arab. 

“All right. Spider,” he said gaily, all his fears 
forgotten in the sensation of having money in his 
pocket once more. “I’m off. Ta-fa! And he 
went out. 

Skinner watched him make his way across the 


£78 


THE SILVER KING 


lawn, and, closing the window, returned to the 
fireplace. 

‘‘I think Fve shut his mouth for the time,” he 
thought, pulling at the ends of his waxed mous- 
tache. ‘‘But the moment he has spent the money 
he’ll come back. Curse them! I won’t trust any of 
them. Now, let me see. Olive is safe. The swag 
is safe. Nothing can touch me. What did that 
servant tell me ? ‘The Grange, Gardenhurst, Bucks.’ 
Yes. Then now for Mr. John Franklin.” 

He crossed the room, unlocked an inner door, and 
passed into a little dressing-room beyond, furnished 
only with a couch and a wardrobe. Here he hastily 
exchanged his dress-clothes for a morning suit and 
a light overcoat, into whose pocket he thrust Father 
Christmas’s hoard. Then, returning to the smok- 
ing-room, he turned out the gas, and a few seconds 
later he let himself quietly out of the villa. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


For about an hour after Skinner's departure ‘‘The 
Firs" remained silent and shrouded in darkness. 

Then, suddenly, there came a light, scraping 
sound at the window of the smoking-room, and the 
shutters opened noiselessly. 

A head peered cautiously in, and was followed by 
a body. A man carrying a dark lantern turned a 
thin yellow ray of light from side to side of the 
room, and then stepped lightly on felt-soled boots 
towards Skinner’s desk. It was Baxter the detec- 
tive, his eyes keen and alive with excitement, his 
square frame tense and alert. 

“All gone,” he muttered. “The Spider too. 
He brought that stufi here, though. It must be in 
the house somewhere. Oh, if only I could nab 
you. Spider! To think that I know that that rascal 
has had his finger in every big jewel robbery for 
the last ten years, and I’ve never been able to lay 
my hands on him! But I think I shall be one too 
many for him this time. There’s some big swag 
about here to-night, and I don’t leave this house till 
I’ve smelt it out.’’ 

He stopped suddenly. He had caught the sound 
279 


280 


THE SILVER KING 


of footsteps. Someone was coming slowly down 
the stairs. Quick as lightning, he darkened his lan- 
tern and, moving noiselessly to a high screen which 
stood in the corner of the room, he concealed him- 
self behind it. 

The door opened, and Olive Skinner entered, 
carrying a lighted candle, and looking nervously 
about her. 

‘‘They have left the house,’' she murmured, 
speaking softly to herself as she made her way to 
the cabinet and opened it with trembling hands. 
“Now is the time. Oh, how my heart beats! But 

I must have courage ; for Herbert’s sake, for ” 

Her voice died on her lips and she turned round, 
her face ghastly with terror, as Baxter, guessing 
who she was, stepped from his hiding-place. 

“Herbert! Who’s that?” she gasped. “What 
do you want?” 

“Silence! For your life!” whispered the detec- 
tive fiercely, clapping a hand over her mouth and 
hushing any attempt to scream. His quick ear had 
caught another sound ; somewhere about the house, 
it seemed to be down in the basement. He listened 
intently. Yes, there was someone moving stealthily 
below! He had not spent the greater part of a 
lifetime warring against burglars for nothing. 

Baxter peered anxiously into the white face of 
the woman in his arms. Thank Heaven, she had 
fainted. His eyes ran round the room, and rested 


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281 


on an inner door. Lifting the inanimate form, he 
carried it across, opened the door, and deposited 
his burden, gently enough, upon the couch. Then, 
slipping back on his silent soles into the smoking- 
room, he crept into a corner behind the high stand- 
ing screen and waited, his hand grasping a revolver. 

The sound below, tiny as it was, still continued, 
and then gave place to another, faint but audible, 
as of someone coming upstairs with muffled feet. 
A little creak at the top of the stairs followed, a 
soft footfall in the hall, and there was someone in 
the room, breathing low but with an effort, as if 
terribly apprehensive of being heard. 

It was Corkett, who had returned. The ex-clerk 
had broken into the villa by way of a kitchen win- 
dow, and made his way timorously upstairs. He 
now stood in the dark room, searching apprehen- 
sively round him. 

When he found that there seemed to be no one 
about and that the house was unlighted and silent, 
he appeared to be relieved, and, striking a match, 
he lighted Olive’s candle, which she had half 
placed, half dropped, on to the desk, and which the 
detective had hastily blown out as he carried her 
away. Then he stood for a moment meditating. 

‘That was old Coombe’s money bag he had,” he 
reflected. “Then the swag must be here too. He 
couldn’t have carted it anywhere else in the time. 
Now where has he put it? If I can only collar it, 


282 


THE SILVER KING 


I will make myself scarce. Spider wanted me to 
make myself scarce, and now Til do it.’^ 

Muttering to himself, and unconscious that a 
pair of keen eyes were watching his every move- 
ment, a pair of sharp ears taking in every word, 
he made a hasty examination of the room from 
where he stood, lighting at last on the little cabinet, 
whose door, left open by Olive, attracted his curi- 
ous glance. 

‘‘What’s that?” he whispered. “Hullo! Why, 
these are the cases — ^the jewels — the swag! Golly! 
here’s the whole blessed lot! Why, this’ll be a 
perfect gold-mine to me!” 

Quickly he had the cases out of the cabinet, and, 
after a hurried examination of their contents, he 
hastened to dispose of them about his person, 
gibbering to himself the while, like a monkey with 
a hoard of nuts. “My word! here’s luck,” he 
muttered. “Won’t old Spider be jolly mad when 
he finds out! I can be honest now for the rest of 
my life. After all, honesty is the best policy. Ha, 
ha! I’m off — my name’s Walker!” 

But he had reckoned without his host. Eager to 
secure his booty, engrossed in his dreams of future 
wealth and happiness, he had not seen the detective 
emerge from his hiding-place and edge between 
himself and the window, and, turning gaily round 
and coming breast to breast with Baxter, revolver 
in hand, he gave a scream of terror. 


THE SILVER KING 


28S 


“No, your name’s not Walker,” said the detec- 
tive coolly; “it’s Corkett. I know you, you young 
blackguard.” 

The dismayed wretch uttered a feeble whimper 
of despair. “Nobbled — Baxter — fourteen years!” 
he groaned. 

Baxter smiled grimly. “Yes, that’s right. Now, 
my young friend, just turn your pockets out,” he 
said. “Let’s see what’s in them.” 

Corkett’ s face turned all colours. “I’ve only got 
my handkerchief,” he expostulated. 

Baxter winked. “Let’s have a look at it then,” 
he said. 

“And a bunch of keys.” 

“Turn them out,” replied the other firmly. 
“Now will you hand over, or ” 

Upon this Corkett produced a jewel case, with a 
sigh. “Yes, sir,” he said, handing it over. 

Baxter opened the case. “The Hon. Mrs. Fare- 
brother’s rings,” he remarked; “stolen from her 
maid while travelling.” 

Corkett looked pained. “I don’t know neither 
her nor her maid,” he protested. 

“Go on,” said Baxter imperturbably. “The 
next !” 

Slowly and unwillingly dragged forth, a second 
case appeared, this time from somewhere in the 
back of Corkett’s coat, and this, too, the detective 
examined, giving a little exclamation as he looked 


284 


THE SILVER KING 


at the name inside the case. ^‘Hunt & Groves! 
Bracelets! Bond Street robbery, last autumn,” he 
cried. 

Corkett’s hand went out quickly. ‘‘I can prove 
an alibi,” he said eagerly. “I was in quod at the 
time.” 

Baxter waved his expostulations aside. ‘‘The 
next,” he said sternly. “Look alive. Come on; 
I’ve no time to waste.” And, seeing that the 
blushing Corkett remained still coy, he tapped him 
on his chest, which gave out a hollow sound. 
“What’s this?” he said, and his hand dived under 
the unwilling one’s waistcoat, returning with a 
leather case. “By Jove! Lady Blanche Wynter’s 
jewels!” he exclaimed, and for a moment he looked 
at the dejected youth almost in admiration. 

The latter made a last effort. “Yes, I was just 
a-going to take them to her,” he explained. 

“I’ll save you the trouble,” said Baxter, putting 
the case away carefully in his pocket. 

Corkett watched, with pink, watery eyes and 
drawn mouth, his last hope disappear. 

“There’s a reward of a thousand pounds offered 
for them jewels,” he almost sobbed. 

“I’ll save you the trouble of taking that too,” 
rejoined the detective, with another grim smile, and 
he turned to Corkett with a movement which made 
the poor wretch start back in dismay. 

“I say, you know,” he began, “I’ll just tell you 


THE SILVER KING 


285 


how this all happened. Now, it ain’t my fault, it’s 
my misfortune. I — I ” 

Baxter cut in on his babbling by shooting out a 
hand towards his shoulder. ‘‘Oh, yes, I know 
you’re a very much injured young man,” he said; 
“but now, my sweet innocent, just you come along 
nicely with me.” 

Corkett cast a despairing glance around him, but 
no gleam of consolation appeared, and dejectedly 
he gave in. “Oh, yes. I’ll come along quiet,” he 
whimpered ; “I’ll come like a lamb. But you know, 
this ain’t my swag, not a blessed bit of it. It’s all 
the Spider’s.” 

The detective nodded his head. “We’ll talk 
about the Spider by and by,” he said. “Meanwhile, 
out you go, through that window.” 

He covered his captive with the revolver as he 
clambered out — though he scarcely feared now that 
he would attempt to escape — and dropped out on 
to the lawn after him. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Once more it was morning at the Grange — a 
beautiful young summer morning that would have 
lent enchantment to the most prosaic landscape, but 
made Nelly Denver’s old Buckinghamshire garden 
seem a perfect paradise. The scent of the haw- 
thorns and laburnums perfumed the light breeze, 
and the sunshine bathed trees, flowers, and earth 
in its fresh splendour. The mistress of the Grange 
was crossing and re-crossing the lawn with quick, 
short steps. With her bright gold hair all un- 
covered, and her robe of white relieved only by a 
touch of rose-pink, she might have been taken for 
the goddess of the garden, had not her obvious 
restlessness seemed so out of harmony with the 
peace around her. The fingers of her right hand 
twitched as they held her tiny lace handkerchief, 
and a tense, strained expression was in her face. 

But there was good cause for her nervous excite- 
ment on this lovely morning. She had thrown off 
widowhood, and her husband was coming back to 
her from the dead. Any minute she might hear 
his step in the lane, might see him at the gate. At 
his desire she was waiting for him in the garden, 
286 


THE SILVER KING 


m 


leaving Jaikes to bring him from the station. Oh, 
why had he not allowed her to meet him on the 
platform! Why must she stay here, counting the 
weary minutes which separated her from him? 
Suppose he did not come by this train? Suppose 
he had changed his mind, or something had 
happened to prevent him leaving London? All 
the mystery still remained obscure to her. What 
had he been doing since that dreadful Thursday 
four years ago? Why had he forced Jaikes to 
play a part with her? Why had he played a part 
himself? And what had occurred to make him 
willing to drop that part at last? All was dark — 
all except one clear fact — that he had promised to 
come to her this morning. 

Steps in the lane! Voices! Was it he? She 
ran to the gate. There was Jaikes, with a tall, 
white-haired man, whose face, deeply lined with 
care, turned pale as she gazed at it. She saw him 
open his arms and come forward. Could it be 
true? 

'Ts it ... my Will?'' she gasped out, as the 
arms drew nearer. ‘‘My Will . . . this face . . . 
this white hair ... my Will alive?" 

One word only came to her in return. “Nell!" 
and the arms went round her, clasped her tightly, 
and kisses rained upon her face. 

She struggled a little at first, then resigned her- 
self with a sob. “Oh, Will!" she cried, “don't 


288 


THE SILVER KING 


speak, don’t say a word; only let me look at you. 
Oh, let me cry, or else my heart will break ! Don’t 
stop me, Will.” 

Wilfred Denver had come home. His heart was 
too full to speak, and he found no difficulty in 
humouring his wife’s request as she sobbed hysteri- 
cally in his arms. He held her up gently, waiting 
for the passionate weeping to cease, and watching 
the dear features for the sight of which he had 
ached so long. 

Old Jaikes had turned away, mopping his eyes 
with a bright bandanna handkerchief, and was 
making his way towards the house. 

Denver looked up at him. “Where are you go- 
ing, Jaikes?” he asked softly. 

“I’m a-going to have a look at the weather-glass, 
Master Will,” was the answer in a queer, choking 
voice. “I think it’s set fair ... at last.” 

Nelly’s sobs continued, but they grew gradually 
less painful, and Denver led her gently to the old 
seat under the chestnut tree — the seat where he had 
wooed and won her on that day which now seemed 
but yesterday — and, still holding her in his arms, 
drew her down upon his knees. She seemed so 
light and small to him that he thought of how he 
had held Cissy the same way, in that wretched 
cottage months ago, and smiled. At last the 
weeping ceased, and Nelly lay quiet, her head upon 
his shoulder. 


THE SILVER KING 


289 


‘‘That’s right,” he whispered in her ear; “your 
tears have eased your heart. And now, Nell, I 
have such news for you! The best news ever 
heard. Think of it, Nell! I never killed that man. 
I am innocent!” 

She sat up and stared at him, wide-eyed and 
wondering. 

“Will,” she almost screamed, “can it be so? Can 
you prove it?” 

“I have proved it, and soon I shall prove it to 
all the world.” 

“Of course. Will. . . . Oh, to think that I 
should ever have believed you guilty . . . but you 
told me.” Her sobs began again, but with a brave 
effort she checked them. “I must not cry now. 
Oh, Will darling, it seems to me as if I were 
dreaming. I can only look in your dear, changed 
face, and ask : ‘Is it true?’ ” 

“Do you think me so changed, then?” he 
asked. 

“Yes and no — changed and not changed. You 
are always the same to me; always my Will. No, 
you are not changed a bit.” 

He smiled fondly at her, and shook his head at 
the sweet flattery. 

“But our children, Nell?” he went on. “Where 
are our little Ned and Cissy?” 

“Why, I have been waiting for you to ask that ! 
I watched over them all the night. I wouldn’t wake 


^90 


THE SILVER KING 


them before you came. It is so early. Come; 
we’ll go in now, and find them still in bed.” 

She got up and stood ready to lead him into the 
house. But it was not necessary, for bursts of 
laughter came out to them from the doorway, and 
Jaikes appeared, a child dragging at either hand, 
almost run off his feet by his impetuous young cap- 
tors. Very red in the face, puffing hard, he 
pleaded for mercy. 

"'Gently, gently, missy!” he gasped. “Gently, 
Master Ned! That’s my old rheumaticky arm. 
Don’t you pull it out of joint, you young Turk!” 

“Then where’s the surprise you’ve got for us?” 
the children demanded merrily. They stopped as 
they saw the pair in the garden, and Cissy gave a 
shriek of delight when she recognised the “kind 
gentleman.” She ran towards him, followed by 
Ned, anxious not to be left out of anything. 

Denver held out his arms to them, lifting 
them up in turn and kissing them again and 
again. 

‘"Cissy and Ned, do you know me?” he asked. 
“I’m your father who was dead. Yes,” he con- 
tinued, smiling at their calm acceptance of this 
astonishing statement, and stooping down to them, 
“I’m alive again, and I’ve come home to you. Put 
your arms round my neck, both of you. Quite 
close — that’s it, my darlings.” 


THE SILVER KING 


291 


“I know who that little girl was that you lost/' 
said Cissy proudly. 

‘Well, tell me. Who was she?" 

“Why, me, of course. Wasn't she?" 

“Yes, I’ve found her and I shall never lose her 
again.” 

“No," insisted the child very decidedly, “we 
shall never let you go away again, shall we, 
mamma ?" 

Nelly shook her head, but the tears would flow, 
and she could not answer. There was a suspicious 
moisture, too, about Denver’s eyes, which did not 
escape Master Ned’s sharp gaze. He regarded his 
seniors with a surprised look. 

“But you're crying," he remarked. 

“And Jaikes too,” pointed out Cissy. “What- 
ever’s there to cry for?" 

Jaikes gurgled thickly. “Ah, don't you take any 
notice of me, missy," he protested. “I’m not cry- 
ing ; I’m only laughing the wrong way." 

The children watched him narrowly, as if they 
wanted to learn how this interesting feat was per- 
formed, until Nelly began to feel they would make 
the good old man break down entirely. So she 
drew Cissy's face round towards her. 

“Cissy," she asked, “when you were a little 
baby and could just run about, you used to call 
for somebody upstairs and down, all over the 
house. Who was it? Do you remember?" 


292 


THE SILVER KING 


'Why, daddy!” cried the child, hugging her 
father round the neck with such fierce joy that he 
could scarcely breathe. 

Jaikes, recovering himself, looked at her with a 
chuckle. 

"Yes, missy,” he said, "and I can remember 
when your daddy used to go toddling about a-calling 
'Jaikes' all over the house. Ah, Master Will, I 
can just remember your great-grandfather I I’ve 
seen four generations of you, and I’ve never had a 
happier moment than this in all my life.” 

His old eyes rested on the little group with deep 
affection, and Denver and Nelly smiled back at him 
gratefully. But suddenly a slight noise at the 
garden gate caused them to start. 

"Look, Will!” cried Nelly. "That man!” 

Denver followed the direction of her eyes, and 
saw, standing in the gateway, the sinister form of 
Herbert Skinner, his face distorted with a sneer. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Wilfred Denver disengaged Cissy’s arms from 
about his neck, and stood up, pale and stern. 

“Jaikes,” he said, ‘‘take my children away.” 

The old man, with surprise in his face and a 
queer glance at Skinner, obeyed in silence, and the 
children trotted off with him, each holding one 
of his hands. Their father’s suddenly altered tone 
seemed to have awed them, and they scarcely 
ventured to look back before they disappeared in- 
doors. 

Denver turned to Nelly quickly. “Go into the 
house, too, Nell,” he said, giving her a loving 
glance. “I will come to you when I have sent this 
man away.” 

Nelly turned her eyes for a moment on him 
whose arrival had seemed all of a sudden to break 
up all their new-found happiness, and as she 
looked, there surged into her mind the remembrance 
of those cruel days of want and desperation in the 
cottage — “not fit for a dog to live in,” as Skinner 
himself had so well described it. The pictures came 
back of herself kneeling in agony at his feet, pray- 
ing for the life of little Ned, and of his contempt 
293 


294 THE SILVER KING 


tuous promise to give her a few days^ respite ; and 
of the coming to the cottage of that dreadful old 
man with the blue eyes and white beard, sent to 
tell her that the promise was withdrawn. She could 
not repress a feeling of terror as the author of so 
much unhappiness to her and hers stood once more 
before her. Skinner returned her glance with a 
cold stare. His neatly gloved hands trembled 
slightly, but otherwise he gave no signs of the 
excitement which he could not but be feeling. 

Nelly’s eyes turned again in her husband’s direc- 
tion, and as she gazed in those dear, worn features, 
animated now with so proud a look, a brave light 
came into her sweet face. 

‘‘Let me stay, Will,” she said quietly. ‘‘I would 
rather stay.” 

Skinner moved a step nearer. “Mr. John 
Franklin,” he began, when Denver swung round 
upon him. 

“Denver, sir,” he said sternly. Then he held out 
his hand to his wife, and his voice softened again. 
“Come, Nell,” he said. “Let us go in. I have no 
business with this man.” 

Skinner bit his under-lip and shot a furious 
glance. “Mrs. Franklin,” he said threateningly, 
“I hold your husband’s life in my hands. If you 
value it, beg him to hear what I have to say.” 

At the sound of the words and the menace in his 
tones, Nelly’s face blanched, and unconsciously one 


THE SILVER KING 


295 


hand went to her heart. '‘Oh, Will, is it true?’' 
she cried to her husband. "Are you in danger? 
Let us hear what he has to say.” 

Skinner shook his head. "What I have to say 
must be said to him alone.” 

The assurance of his attitude was frightening 
Nelly, and, strive as she might, she could not help 
showing her fear. Trembling and with a half-wild 
look, she turned imploringly to her husband. 

"Oh, Will, listen to him — for my sake!” she 
cried. 

Denver’s eyes were fixed on his enemy, who 
boldly returned his glance. For a moment there 
was a pause, then Denver, without removing his 
gaze from the other’s face, motioned to his wife to 
stand a little aside. "Remain within sight, dear,” 
he said. Then to Skinner, "Now, sir!” 

The evil green eyes wavered for the first time 
since their possessor had entered the garden of the 
Grange. "Look here, Mr. Franklin,” he began, but 
Denver interrupted him sternly once more. 

"Denver, sir,” he repeated. 

The other frowned. "I thought I had better not 
mention that name. I do not want to get you into 
trouble,” he added. 

There was some contempt in Denver’s smile as 
he listened to these words. "I’ll take care you 
don’t do that,” he returned. 

Skinner hesitated, a little of his assurance leav- 


296 


THE SILVER KING 


ing him. The conversation was not proceeding at 
all as he Tiad expected it to. This man was too 
cool. There was mischief somewhere, he felt, or 
how could he expect to be able to establish his 
innocence alone, without the aid of a single wit- 
ness? '^You appear to misunderstand me,” he said 
at last. 

Denver's lip curled. ‘‘Not at all. I understand 
you perfectly. I've watched you day and night 
for the last five months.” 

Skinner started, his teeth showing suddenly. 

“What do you mean ?” he asked, rather unstead- 
ily. “What do you know about me? What have 
you seen?” 

“Quite enough for my purpose. Captain 
Skinner.” 

“And you mean to use your knowledge?” asked 
the other, with a flash of his green eyes. 

Denver nodded his head slowly. “I do,” he 
said. 

Skinner looked at him furiously, and as he spoke 
his voice grew strangely shrill. “Take care!” he 
said. “I warn you not to quarrel with me. I'll 
give you a chance, and if you're wise you’ll take 
it before it's too late.” 

Denver returned his gaze with eyes that never 
dropped for a moment. 

“Go on,” he said. 

Skinner moved a step nearer, and, making a 


THE SILVER KING 


great effort, changed his manner to one of frank- 
ness, almost of friendliness. ‘We are both in a 
devil of a mess,’’ he said, forcing a smile. “Why 
not make a mutual concession ? — silence for silence. 
You keep quiet on my affairs, I will keep quiet on 
yours — you allow me to pursue my business, I 
allow you to pursue yours.” 

Denver, whose face was inscrutable, nodded once 
more. “And the alternative?” he asked. 

“You fight me — I fight you. You proclaim me 
a thief, and get me a possible five or seven years — 
I proclaim you a murderer, and get you hanged. 
Take care; it’s an edged tool that we’re playing 
with. It cuts both ways, but the handle is in my 
hand, and the blade towards you. You had better 
remain John Franklin. Wilfred Denver is dead; 
let him remain so.” 

Denver looked at him, his eyes flashing. “You 
liel” he shouted. “Down to your very soul, you 
lie! Wilfred Denver is alive, and to-day all the 
world shall know it.” 

He turned to where his wife stood watching the 
scene. “Nell,” he called. 

Pale, and gazing at him with eyes in which love 
fought with terror, the young woman came to his 
side, and he put his arm round her. “Nell,” he 
said, “there stands the murderer of Geoffrey Ware.^ 
He wants to bargain with me. Shall I hide myself, 
or shall I tell the truth to the world ? Shall I make 


298 


THE SILVER KING 


peace with him, or shall I fight him? Give him his 
answer.” 

As the whole truth burst upon her, and she 
looked at this man who had ruined her husband’s 
life and hers, Nelly’s sweet eyes darkened and her 
lips set fixedly and proudly. She raised her head 
high with a quick gesture. “You will fight him!” 
she said. 

Denver, with a gesture of pride, turned to 
Skinner, who stood biting his lips, with his 
fingers gripping convulsively at the cane in his 
hands. “You have your answer,” he said. 
“Now go.” 

His enemy tried a last desperate stroke. “I 
shall go straight from here and give information 
to the police that Wilfred Denver is alive,” he 
said, raising his hand threateningly. 

Denver appeared to consider for a moment. 
“Nell, send Jaikes to me,” he said, and as his wife 
hastened towards the house, he took a notebook 
from his pocket and wrote a message hurriedly on 
one of the leaves. When he had finished, he tore 
the page out and read it over in tones which rang 
in Skinner’s ears: 

“Superintendent, Criminal Investigation Depart- 
ment, Scotland Yard. I surrender myself to take 
trial on charge of murder of Geoffrey Ware, of 
which murder I am innocent. I know the where- 


THE SILVER KING 


299 


abouts of real criminal. From Wilfred Denver, 
The Grange, Gardenhurst, Bucks.” 

He had scarcely concluded reading these words 
before his wife returned with Jaikes. Denver 
turned to the old servant and handed him the mes- 
sage. “J^-ikes,” he said, ‘'take this telegram down 
to the post office at once.” 

The old man started to hobble off in the direc- 
tion of the garden gate at his best pace, leaving 
the other three standing on the lawn. None of 
them spoke. Denver looked at his wife with a 
calm, confident smile, and she came up to him and 
put her hand in his, her eyes riveted on his face. 
Skinner seemed at a loss whether to go or stay. 
His glance wandered from the gate, through which 
the bent back of Jaikes was disappearing, to the 
husband and wife near him on the lawn. A sneer 
curled his lips as he watched Nelly's gesture of 
trust, and he slowly turned on his heel and began 
to walk away. 

Before he had got very far, however, he paused, 
with an expression of wonder on his face. Denver 
and Nelly, too, looked with startled eyes to behold 
Jaikes in the gateway with a broad-shouldered, 
keen-faced man who, with a quick movement, took 
the slip of paper from the old servant’s hands and 
coolly ran his glance over the message. 

“Nell,” whispered Denver, all unconscious how 
well she could remember her meeting with the man 


300 


THE SILVER KING 


four years ago, ‘‘that’s Baxter, the Scotland Yard 
detective !” 

Skinner recognised the detective almost as soon 
as Denver, and a gleam of triumph in his green 
eyes displaced the former wonder. “Baxter!” he 
cried, in his turn. “Mr. Baxter, you come just in 
time. Do your duty, and arrest the murderer of 
Geoffrey Ware,” and he pointed to Denver, who 
stood with his arms folded, looking firmly at the 
two. 

Sam Baxter’s jaws set grimly as he produced a 
pair of handcuffs from an inner pocket. He took 
a couple of steps in the direction of Denver. “Very 
well,” he said; “I will do my duty, and arrest the 
murderer of Geoffrey Ware!” 

Then, very swiftly, he turned aside and threw 
himself upon Skinner. The suddenness of the 
manoeuvre won the day for the detective. There 
was an exclamation, an oath, a brief struggle, and 
the Spider, foaming at the mouth and gnashing 
his white teeth furiously, found his wrists securely 
fastened in the fetters of steel. 

“Curse you! What do you mean by this?” he 
gasped. 

Baxter rearranged his collar, a little crumpled 
in the short struggle, and smiled quietly upon his 
captive. “I mean,” he said, “that your dear 
friend Mr. Henry Corkett has turned King’s 
evidence.” 


THE SILVER KING 


301 


Skinner ground his teeth at the mention of this 
name. ‘‘And you believe what that creature says 
he cried. 

The detective laughed good-humouredly. “Oh, 
yes, I always believe what I am told — especially 
when it is proved.'^ 

“And what proof have you of this tale?’' 

“The evidence of your other friends, Mr. Coombe 
and Mr. Cripps,” replied Baxter calmly. “Thanks 
to Mr. Corkett, I’ve bagged the lot of them, and 
they all tell the same tale. Is that enough, 
Spider?” 

Skinner clenched his fettered hands as if he 
wished that Father Christmas’s venerable neck was 
within their grasp. 

“The blackguards! Hang them!” he hissed. 

Baxter chuckled softly. “Well, no; but I think 
that may happen to you,” he returned. “I fancy 
they will get off more or less lightly.” 

With this he turned to Denver, who, with Nelly 
at his side, had watched the scene with startled 
eyes. “Mr. Denver, I believe?” he said. 

“That is my name,” said Wilfred. 

“I shall want you as a witness against this 
man.” 

Denver looked at Skinner, and for a moment his 
sad, searching eyes seemed to reach down into the 
soul of the beaten wretch, and to pity him. “I 
once was in his place,” he said gently to Nelly, 


S02 


THE SILVER KING 


“and but for Heaven’s mercy I might be there 
now!” And he looked away with a sigh. “I 
shall be ready to come when called upon, Mr. Bax- 
ter,” he said. “But I must tell you that I have no 
desire for revenge. My only wish is to clear liiy 
own name.” 

“That is already done,” said the detective 
quietly. 

He turned to the Spider, who, defeated and 
handcuffed as he was, was yet making a brave 
effort to recover his old coolness, and to compose 
his pale features to their normal, insolent calm. 
He bent down, and, picking up the slim ebony 
cane which the gentleman burglar always carried, 
he placed it between his manacled hands. “Come, 
Spider,” he said briskly; “I want to catch the up- 
train. I’ve got a call to make on Lady Blanche 
Wynter in town this morning.” 

At the mention of Lady Blanche, Skinner, with 
a return of his usual manner, gave a supercilious 
glance at the steel fetters that enclosed his slim 
wrists, drawing his hands disgustedly beneath his 
cuffs. “Are these necessary?” he asked. 

Baxter gave him a wink. “Well, yes, I think 
so, if you don’t mind,” he said. 

As he started to walk with his captive towards 
the gate, the detective turned once more for a mo- 
ment to Denver. 

“You’ve had a very narrow escape, sir,” he said. 


THE SILVER KING 


303 


raising his hat. ‘'Good morning, sir. Good morn- 
ing, ma’am.” 

Wilfred Denver and his wife silently watched 
the two forms — the one broad and thick-set, the 
other so lithe and elegant — pass out of the garden, 
and out of their lives. As the man who had been 
the cause, so wantonly and unprovoked, of all their 
misery disappeared, their eyes sought one another’s 
faces. Denver opened his arms, and Nelly let her 
head fall forward upon his breast. For some min- 
utes they remained locked together thus, too peace- 
ful, too happy even to speak. 

At last Nelly felt her husband’s embrace relax. 
She heard footsteps on the gravel path leading from 
the house, and turned her head to see Jaikes lead- 
ing forward his two young charges by the hand, 
his kindly, wrinkled old face all abeam with smiles. 

“Darling, here are the children,” said the Silver 
King. “Come* let us kneel and give thanks, here 
in the dear old home where I won you in the happy 
days long ago. And then, Jaikes, old friend. Cissy, 
Ned, Nell darling, let us go in; for I am longing 
for home — home at last !” 


THE END 







T he art of the photoplay” is a condensed 

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